You don’t get to pick your neighbors and when you live in an apartment building, things can get dicey. I lived seventeen years in an apartment building in the Murray Hill section of Manhattan until I saved enough money to buy a co-op uptown. The day I moved, a guy in the apartment to my left and a guy from the apartment to my right both came out to extend well wishes and a friendly adios.
“You were the best neighbor. We hate to see you go,” they said.
It was an awkward moment. Even after being sandwiched between the two of them for a while, I didn’t have a clue what their names were. Moreover I couldn’t help but wonder what their criteria for best neighbor even was. They were both retired so I never saw them in the morning when I was leaving for work or in the evening when I came home. I never heard them from inside my apartment. Not a peep.
I remember when the Super (Vasco) died. He was an excellent Super that lived in the basement of the building with his wife and two kids. Nicest guy. Once the news got out several residents wanted to pay their respects to Vasco’s family by going to his wake in the Portuguese section of Newark, New Jersey. Somebody posted a sign saying we should gather in the lobby 5:30 on a Tuesday night so we could make the trek together. To set the scene, nobody knew anybody’s name, just their apartment number. Most of the group had rarely if ever left the island of Manhattan. None of us had ever been to Newark.
A real Seinfeld episode ensued.
We gotta slow down. 12G is already two blocks behind.
Is he the one on a cane?
No. That’s 15J. He couldn’t make the trip. 12G is the one with a limp.
Oh that one.
When our train was ready to pull out of Penn Station, somebody took a headcount and we were short two people. The man with the limp wasn’t one of them. Nobody knew who was missing but when a train leaves the station you get on it. The train ride to Newark took all of ten minutes, so it was weird when a woman from 7C pulled out snacks for the trip like we were flying to Los Angeles. Once off the train, we were told we could just walk to the funeral home. So we walked and walked and walked. The group clung together tightly as the neighborhood got scarier. Somebody asked a bodega cashier for directions. No English. In fact, no English speakers in the entire neighborhood. Guided by instinct and anonymous to each other, we eventually got to the funeral home ten minutes before the viewing ended.
The trip back to the city took a you’re on your own mode. Everyone was sick of being lost, sick of being yelled at in Portuguese and tired of trying to remember what person came from which apartment. So everyone just went their separate ways. I guess everyone got home eventually but who the hell knows.
I’ve lived in two other places between Murray Hill and Philadelphia where I currently am, but that’s a whole different story.
Now I live on the top floor where the apartments are called penthouses and have multiple floors inside. I’m coming up on one year here and not only have I not met anyone on my floor, I’ve never seen anyone on my floor. Never. Walking the hallway to the trash chute or elevator is like a scene straight out of The Shining. It’s not creepy … well it’s a little creepy.
Once my better half moves back I think we need to throw a getting to know you party.
He’s the happy party organizer type.
I’m just the other half of 20G.