Mr. Rhinehardt was the kind of person one noticed. 120 Alice Court was a charming Queen Anne three story manse that had been transformed into flats right after WWII. It was advertised as full of character, which meant drafty original windows, gingerbread turrets, pipes that banged, and a sunny wraparound porch. Mr. Rhinehardt lived on the top floor.

In the winter 120 Alice Court put on a good face. Stella Lampfear the artist who lived in the basement/ garden apartment thought the snow frosted old place looked like a lopsided birthday cake. Whenever it snowed she caught Mr. Rhinehardt in his St. John’s sweatshirt shoveling their walkway and vehicles.

The Small-Martinis with their little girl Clarissa and another on the way moved into Old Lady Green’s flat last autumn. Between work and Clarissa, they barely noticed Mr. Rhinehardt. They passed in the foyer with a polite nod. Or he held the door open when they were carrying in groceries and the stroller. They never knew when they lost SugarPants it was Mr Rhinehardt who found it in the recycling, washed and returned the toy cat with a stuffed toy kitten.

During the sticky summer nights every window in 120 Alice Court was wedged open in the hope of a breeze. Maybe that was why Mr. Rhinehardt stood on Miss Feathergill’s last nerve. He was partial to German Thrash Metal and bottles of katzenshiegal on occasion. The summer soundtrack was Miss Feathergill banging her second floor ceiling as Mr. Rhinehardt danced.

While spring cleaning Stella Lampfear noticed the top floor tenant weaving drunkenly up the front stairs. It wasn’t the first time. In fact she noticed his stumbling home more and more. Then there were the familiar long blue bottles tucked in the recycling bins. And of course there was the switch from the pounding beat of Accept to moody requiems.

Having gone through her own blue period Stella recognized all the signs. Her hands clenched and unclenched helplessly. There was no salvation from sadness were hard work and perhaps Zoloft. Stella reclaimed the bottles and sparked her welding torch.

By his laptop Karl aka Mr. Rhinehardt scrubbed at his face and reached for his glass. He was distracted by the tinkling of glass in the backyard. For months he had been smashed between writer’s block and anxiety. He watched the artist in the fading blue light lit by a flame working metal and swaying bottles. Karl set down his glass captivated.