The temporary nurse.

Next door and a couple doors down and across from us (Castle apartments are small. It is wise if one can afford it to own two; we don't.) live the regrettably monickered duo "The Boys from Brazil". The "boys" part is obvious, they're a gay male couple, though they stopped being boys some fifty years ago. The "Brazil" part is because that's where they make their home when they are not occupying their two apartments at Castle Green. "The Boys from Brazil" is still an unfortunate choice of nickname, as I'm pretty sure it's a book and movie about a plot to clone Hitler.

When they are in Brazil they have renters, but before going to Brazil they issue a polite form letter, the same one that they've been issuing since we've lived here, allowing very minor changes for dates and tenant name. I'd put it here in full for historic record but I've lost the latest. Not a concern, they'll issue another.

A few years ago their tenant was a nurse. She was a long term temp at Huntington Hospital, apparently the need for nurses is such that one can travel the country as a visiting nurse through a temp nurse placing agency. But of course they'll never see much of the country, because they work nurse hours.

This particular nurse was in her early thirties, pretty, and missed her cat terribly. I don't know what the Boys from Brazil's objection to the cat was, perhaps that he would scratch their furniture or rewrite their form letter. So her cat stayed home with her family and she visited the kitties at the Humane Center, whenever she had a partial day off.

I liked her, she borrowed my little dogs. I've made the offer to other people when they clearly missed furry companionship, but she's the only one who's ever taken me up on it. That and we would discuss girly things at night when she came home and I was sitting out in the 4th floor hallway making jewelry.

Since our apartment is tiny, I keep my craft supplies in an armoire in our hall, the tallest most passably Victorian one I could afford that didn't exceed 15 inches. Furniture no more than 15 inches deep is allowed in the hallways because it supposedly gives the Castle a bohemian privileged feel, while not pissing off the fire department. When I babysat in New York only the richest families had furniture in their hall, antique highboys and lowboys. So furniture in the hall clearly implies a certain status. A couch on the front porch or a TV on the lawn does too, but that's a different status.

A small portion of what I keep in the hall.

While I did crafts on the hallway's historic carpeting (it really is historic and it involves a "Gish", more about that later) in the dim elegant light, we would discuss men and pets and clothes. She shopped on her lunch breaks and bought dresses she showed me in their bags and boxes. I don't think she was saving her money for anything besides the Boys from Brazil's exorbitant rent (and she was renting only one of their apartments), so why not? Except that she had no place to wear them.

That must have bothered her too, because she began dating an Indian born doctor. Which made sense because the hospital was the only place she went. I used to think a nurse dating a doctor was a cliche but now I see it's a necessity, because that's where they spend their lives. Kind of like pre-internet when my mother said a woman who didn't leave her house could only ever meet the meter man. Which is true. I worked in childcare, the ultimate meet no men besides people's fathers scenario, with a woman who was seeing her meter man. Hopefully, he was a worthy meter man.

When she began dating her doctor my nurse neighbor was home even less, leaving me to do arts and crafts on the expensive carpet alone. When I did see her, she was rushing out the Boys from Brazil's door, in the pretty clothes from the boxes. She stopped borrowing my dogs and she stopped visiting the cats at the humane center. They probably didn't miss her, since she just was another person looking not buying.

She wasn't the only one not buying. After three months of dinners and what followed, my neighbor began to worry her relationship wasn't reaching the "next level" described in women's magazines. It's kind of like 1st and 2nd base for grownups. I think 1st base is meet his friends. 2nd, meet his parents. 3rd, move in together. The homerun: marriage. Marriage was probably her goal but a ways off. She hadn't reached 1st base yet. On my "Glamour"/"Cosmo" born advice, she told her doctor she'd like to meet his friends. That weekend they took coffee in the break room with his intern.

She devoted herself entirely to her doctor. She learned his shifts and his oncall shifts so she could always be available to him. He commented on how wonderful it was to have a girlfriend who understood should he have to suddenly leave. With her doctor happily sucking up all her time, and 1st base out of the way, my exhausted neighbor was sure their relationship was progressing. We discussed it one night while I let my little dog run the length of the fourth floor hall for exercise, and she waited for her doctor to get off work. We had to talk over the strains of classical music emanating from the apartment where the concert pianist lives, across from the Friends of Castle Green and their midcentury furniture that overflows the hall.

"What about 2nd base" I said, "meet his parents?" I'm sure meeting parents is an important base, falling like it does between meet his friends and move in together. "You're right" she said. He was first generation American, but he grew up in Westwood. Short of difficulty parking there was no reason she shouldn't have met them. She made her move that weekend, suggesting they go to an Indian restaurant in Westwood. We first debated whether it was appropriate or tacky to bring someone to an ethnic restaurant of their ethnicity.

"They're not very good, baby" her doctor said, when she suggested her restaurant (my conclusion: if you're going to a restaurant of someone's ethnicity you should let them choose it). "Any restaurant in Westwood" she said. "Why Westwood, baby?" her doctor questioned. He didn't plead parking issues like Leif would have, he could afford the valet. She then went all out "We could invite your parents. I feel funny taking up your time and not meeting them", to which he said nothing. She thought she understood. "Am I even your girlfriend?" she asked.

"Of course" he said, kissing her sweetly enough to dispel all doubt. "But they don't want to meet anyone but my wife" and clarified, "my future wife". She looked at him in horror, desperate for more honorable intentions. "She has to be Indian, baby. But that's a long way off." A long way off was not what my nurse neighbor wanted, to wait around for him, not seeing anyone else, till he left her for the wife his parents wanted for him.

I want to end the story here, and have her break up with him, but she didn't. He was tall and handsome and made her feel close enough to loved, close enough she no longer hung with me in the hall, visited the humane society's kitties or borrowed my dog.

When her tenure at Huntington Hospital ended she took an assignment at Cedar Sinai, on the westside. Her lease ended at the castle. The Boys from Brazil returned, with strange artifacts to hang in the hall. I don't know if she's still dating her doctor, waiting for him to change his mind.