Finding Joy In The Empty Spaces

December 24, 2013

     Today I only had to interact with five people: the doorman, my driving coach, the seller of long-playing records who helped me vacate my apartment of much of its clutter; and three neighbors.

      My turn behind the wheel started at 8:30 a.m. and went well: I mimicked part of the route to New Hope, Pennsylvania I'll drive Friday morning.  I am trying to get Beau used to being in a car, and by and large succeeding, although today, on the longest drive, he was sick twice.  Fortunately, the driving instructor loves dogs, so it was not a problem.

      The doorman on duty is the longest-serving in the building and the most professional of all the staff that work the door, notwithstanding his lack of English skills.  Were he competent in English, he would be working a building in the 10021 zip code, the one with the highest per capita income in the country.  He and I always speak in Spanish, so I can't fault him, although I can understand the frustration of residents without Spanish-language skills obliged to make sense of his heavily-accented and limited English.

     The long-playing record seller was in a good mood today, riffing on the two million dollars paid to Will Ferrell for "Anchorman 2".  He was out on the street trying to make a few dollars from last-minute shoppers, hanging out with an older African-American man who sometimes brings him things to sell alongside the LPs.  His mood was upbeat.

     Two of my neighbors were perfectly pleasant; the third, a retired physical education instructor who lives in a rent-stabilized apartment with her husband, a singer in classical music choruses, was her usual needling self.  I encountered her in the basement laundry room, washing laundry with her husband beside her.  After I put my wash in the dryer and started to leave, she made a remark about the time a year ago when I rang her bell looking for a lost laundry card I thought she might have picked up by mistake.  I guess my faux pas (the card had about $40 on it and I was upset to have mislaid it) still rankles.  (Someone told me she and her husband once had a knock-down drag-out fight in the laundry room, so maybe I got off lucky.)

     Life with others is not easy.  Which is why it is particularly enjoyable to be here tonight with almost no one here.  When the building's full complement of owners and renters are going through their daily routines, it's a hive of gossip and malice under the surface pleasantness, particularly in December.

     During the holiday season everyone is already on edge, waiting for news of the maintenance increase in January.  When the annual memorandum from the management company makes the request that staff not be forgotten amid the general gift-giving, owners remember 1. how expensive it was to pay out gifts last year; and, 2. the defects of individual building staff (whose names I've changed below):

      "I don't want Felipe 'high fiv-ing' me when I'm trying to get to work in the morning", says one.

     Regarding the same doorman, another says "I don't want Felipe calling me amiga --I'm not his 'amiga'!" 

     "Armando stood there talking to --that Hispanic guy who works in the Columbia building down the street-- looking right at me, while I tried to get my luggage out of the taxi", chirps another.

     "Jesus told me the Super won't let him walk the luggage cart to the elevator anymore" says one of his fans, referring to the rerouting of a peripatetic doorman who prefers to walk around the lobby to standing at the door keeping an eye on the street.

     After the first snow, a dog-owner wails "Did you ever see how much salt they put on the sidewalk?  I told Jorge "Look at how much you're using.  He said 'It's very little.' Ha!"

     "The Super's drunk on the job."

      "The Super hires his relatives  --it's a mafia."

      "The Super does outside jobs on company time."

     Not that the staff doesn't have its beefs with residents:

     "I don't like her --she accused me to Felipe of stealing her packages from the Package Room" says one.

     "I don't like him --his dogs always do their 'business' on the floor in front of the elevator and he pretends not to notice --then I have to clean it up.  For once, could he look behind him?"

     A retired couple, recently moved in, tells me that "The streets are not as clean as 'Lincoln Center'."

     (--Well, the prices aren't as high, either.)

     In brief, this building is an island of complaint.

     But tonight, I listen to the Eton College Choir carol "Hark The Herald Angels Sing" and wait for my laundry to dry and for the clock to strike seven.  I have promised Tucker and Katy, the young people from Vermont who have been selling Christmas trees around the corner day and night for a month now, that I will give them "wassail" and Christmas dainties before they pack up the last of their equipment and head for home.

     Christmas --it's all about finding joy in the empty spaces.