The People in Your Neighborhood

This morning I walked out of my building into an entirely new day. The air was fresh and breezy, tempting the dulcet fates of Autumn. It smelled otherworldly. The garbage collecting on the side of the road was innocuous and merely a placeholder for those who cared about these details. The residue of the evening celebration before, so rancid in the ripe humid morning, was invisible to my morning commuter's eye. I breezed along the bricked sidewalk to the garage, impervious to the onslaught of smell, detris and New York nastiness. I looked ahead and gazed with admiration at the swath of orange painted across the perimeter of sky.

I usually leave my apartment building at the same time every day and I usually see the very same people. Over the course of time, we've become familiar; I don't know some of these people by name but their faces are indelible. As I leave the building, I usually run into Isabella, a minuscule 70-something woman with a German accent who furtively scurries around the streets clutching a plastic bag to collect cans left in garbage cans. There's a guarded quality about her yet she always pauses to bade me good morning. On a few un-rushed mornings, we've stopped and chatted. And who knew? She's lived in my apartment building for 34 years. Rent control, yes, but fixed income, yes. She always gives me a sweet smile and a head nod in greeting.

Today she came scurrying toward me. She seemed joyful. She came very close to me and clutched my arm. "Isn't it a wonderful morning?" she whispered in conspiratorial tones. "Did you see the sky?" I looked up and there above us were scalloped layers of dreamy clouds fanned across the horizon's canvas. "And the moon" she continued, "did you see it?" I shook my head. "Was it full?" I asked. "No," she replied, "but it was bright and hiding behind the clouds." I searched her face and suddenly became aware of the beauty in it. She had a small face, careworn and deeply lined with wrinkles but set within it were a set of clear blue eyes that were so vivid with life that I was momentarily transfixed. Then she hurried on her way. It was a lovely moment.

Then there's Manny. He's a porter in my building and he lives in the building next door (nice commute, no?). He's Dominican and probably one of the sweetest people I've ever met. He is usually standing on the outside steps with his two kids waiting to put them on the bus for school. He always greets me with out stretched arms and a hug and the truth is, I miss the warm welcome from him on the days I'm early or running late. His parting shot is always the same: "Have a beautiful day, my love." I was early today, so I missed him.

There's the janitor who daily sweeps the front of Boricua College (my new best friend since the flashing with the thong underwear incident). He always smiles and says hello. And when I get to the Trinity Cemetery, I usually run across a very imposing, very large gentleman walking his equally imposing and scary pit bull with a leather studded collar. This daunting man is in fact a charming gentleman who always wishes me a good morning with an effusive greeting. I saw them both today and they did not disappoint.

Inevitably, there are the gaggle of teenage girls with their iPods and backpacks and giggling sound effects traipsing down the street to school. Jewels always likes to imitate these Dominican damsels in a perfect New York Spanglish accent: "You bought THAT skirt! Shut UP!" It's dead on.

I always enjoy my morning interlude with Morning Ahmet. He's a rather amorous thing, wildly flirtatious and deliciously inappropriate. Today as I walked up to the garage, he was already pulling my car out onto the street. "I saw you coming," he said, "and I only provide this service to you." I was flattered at the attention. As I got up into the driver's seat, he uttered a furtive missive, "When can I see you outside the garage?" God bless you, man--you're good for this old broad's ego.

When I get home at night, it's a mixed bag. There are alot of people congregating on the street playing dominoes or cards, hanging out on the front steps of apartment building, just bullshitting. It's lazy and lackadaisical, a tableau of humanity simply savoring the waning summer nights. The evening regulars are less predictable. Maybe I'll stop by the corner bodega for seltzer or cat food or milk. The counter man always speaks to me in Spanish but with a humored smile. I practice my bad Spanish in return.

As I walk toward the building, I might see the regulars from my building walking the retinue of resident canines. I'm embarrassed to admit I know all the dogs by name, but have yet to commit the owners' names to memory. There's Milo the geriatric Jack Russell and Emma the spastic Spaniel and Ruggles the Pug and Treble the Pomeranian and Chief the German Shepherd. I always refer to the owner (for example) as "Emma's Mom." They take it good naturedly.

The doormen are my regular pals but my favorite will always be Juan. He's also good for my ego. He's muy delicioso.

And the highlight? If I get in the elevator and someone yells for me to hold the door, once in awhile I hold it for someone noteworthy. Like today: Ms. S. Epatha Merkerson.She's delightful too.

I'm liking my neighborhood.