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February 19, 1999/3 Adar 5759, Vol. 51, No. 21
Where did hamburger guy go?
MICHELLE ACKERMAN
Staff Writer
Iwas tricked.
The day I toured my Scottsdale apartment complex was a beautiful November day. The sky was blue; the air was warm; and a group of 20- and 30-somethings were gathered around the pool, seemingly in the midst of a party. The leasing agent chattered happily about the floor plans, as I dragged her over to see what was going on.
A red and yellow beach ball, a stand-in for the standard white volleyball, was being slammed back and forth over a net stretched out across the pool. The shouts of the game mingled with the beat of a rock song playing from a nearby radio. A guy who was flipping hamburgers on a nearby grill looked at me standing there, grinned and shouted "Want one?"
I was hooked.
These people, all laughing, joking, smiling and happy, acted like they were one big family. Like they were all celebrating something and having the time of their lives - I wanted to be a part of it.
A recently transplanted New Yorker, I was looking for a newly built, resort-style apartment with whitewashed cabinets (a requirement after living with dark furniture for way too many years), in a good location (close to my job), at an affordable price, with other people close to my age.
Enchanted by people I hoped might soon be my neighbors, I filled out form after form listing personal information and prayed I would pass the credit check. A week later, they called. I was the proud leasee of a new apartment.
Happily shoving my clothes in tall black garbage bags, I piled them in the trunk of my car, packed my backseat with books, chachkas and every other worldly possession I own, and headed to my new home.
But then a funny thing happened. As I marveled at the palm trees that are literally outside my front door and tried to catch my neighbor's eye as she walked past for the first time, Deborah, as I later found out her name was, averted her eyes.
"Hi," I said cheerfully, hoping her gaze was just cast down in search of something she dropped.
"Hi," she answered, walking right on by.
She wasn't exactly rude, but she wasn't very friendly either.
Where was my instant new family? The people who were laughing, and who looked so willing to include me in their fun? Where was hamburger guy?
I tried a number of ways to connect with my new neighbors. Under the intense protest of my non-existent muscles, I went to the complex's gym. It was crowded, but again, nobody seemed in the mood to talk. Either people were stepping to the beat of the music in their headsets or too out of breath to chat. They mostly grunted and sweated.
I tried to start conversations, but they went like this: "Hi. Where are you from?" "Huff, Chicago." "Do you like it here?" Nod-nod.
After a few months, I did make one friend. Cheryl lives in the building directly across from mine. We met as we were hanging out on the complex-provided lounge chairs around the pool one Saturday.
She looked at me and asked, "Hi. Are you from Arizona?"
"No, New York," I answered gratefully. "I moved here six months ago. What about you?"
It turned out that she had moved here four days earlier, which to me translated to "I'm still friendly and looking to meet people." And with that conversation, a friendship was born.
In the ensuing months, we've often hashed and rehashed the topic of making friends in Arizona. People seem friendly; many I've encountered just don't seem to want to be friends.
Together, Cheryl and I (and our respective significant others) have tried joining in the volleyball games and the cookouts by the pool. What we've learned is that everyone has fun for the afternoon and then goes their separate ways. I don't know if it's because we all have a ton of work to do, and cleaning and errands to boot, or if the apartment dwellers have hit that certain age after which people are no longer interested in expanding their social circles.
Maybe it's because Arizona is such a transient state. The parking lot of my complex is always littered with moving vans, constantly moving people in, then out, across town to a new home, or to wherever their jobs carry them. Or perhaps, sometimes, it's just easier to concentrate on what's already in our lives, without having to make the effort to cultivate new things. In any case, I refuse to give up.
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