TooMuchInformation

Sunday night it was warm indoors with a gentle breeze coming in through the open windows.  The silence that comes after midnight when the passing cars and their booming ghetto music have gone was broken by the caterwauling of a different kind.  Somewhere on my street an unknown, unseen woman argued at full volume into a phone.  Peppering her speech liberally with the F-bomb, her voice carried into the night.  “You never f-ing call, you never f-ing text, you never f-ing cared for me!”   She went on for nearly an hour. 

What I wouldn’t have given for the usual sounds of cats in heat. 

Twice I popped my head out the window and looked up and down Melrose.  Where is she?  Where is this moron who didn’t get the memo from Carrie Bradshaw that all the “abuse” she’s getting is an indication that “he’s just not that into you”?  

“Why should I f-ing put up with this?” she demands.  ‘Yes,’ I thought ‘why should any of us f-ing put up with this?’  ‘She must be on the roof of the building across the street,’ I figured. ‘And the canyon wall of the taller building next to it is making the echo carry directly into my open windows.’

 

“I shoulda listened to my f-ing friends when they f-ing told me you were no f-ing good!” she went on.  ‘If only,’ I thought.  ‘If only we listened to our friends.  Think of the full night of sleep the entire block could be getting if only our f-ing friends had more sway with all of us.’  For a few minutes I tried to compose the perfect ‘shut up’ message to scream out my windows.  I wondered why I hadn’t figured I’d need a bullhorn when moving to Melrose .  I could stand in my windows and direct her to move indoors.  ‘Break it up, break it up’ I imagined myself saying.  ‘Step away from the ledge.  They’re will be other men who will also not give you the respect you deserve,’ I said in my patronizing mind.  ‘Let this one go Miss.’

 

And why wasn’t she letting him go?  She’d indicated multiple times in the course of the conversation that she intended to.  Wasn’t 1am the time to do it?  Was she planning to meet him in person the next morning and give back his ring?  His toothbrush?  His apartment keys?   What was she holding on to that this outburst late at night couldn’t end? 

Aside from my building, I’m not familiar with my neighbors.  It hadn’t dawned on me that any of the women I see on the street lived within shouting distance or that they spoke English the way she did.  In the 6 months I lived on Melrose all other displays of public dissatisfaction had been conducted in Spanish and therefore easy to block out.  But hearing, and understanding, the ridiculousness of the steady stream of threats to break it off for nearly an hour was too much for me to take. 

I walked to the window again.  The street was empty.  Where was this miserable shrew?  A stray cat across the street prowled in the neighbor’s trash can.  The new building down a bit sat silent and dark, its For Sale sign marred by an anarchist symbol in red spray paint.   Airplanes passed overhead in the cloudless sky.  And the soundtrack to tonight’s production continued.  A hip hop version of everyone’s favorite country song about his lying ways. 

I wondered what he was saying on the other end during the brief lulls in her diatribe.  What could he possibly be saying?  What on earth would make anyone not hang up?  Was he pleading with her?  Spinning more lies?  Trying to explain?  What would make him want to stay with her? 

Finally, just before 2am, her battery either ran out or she gave up.  ‘Silence and sleep,’ I thought.  And then a car drove down the block, blaring the heavy bass of some misogynist pop artist, which in turn set off every car alarm within 100 yards.  ‘Normalcy!’  I dozed off.

 

 

Last weekend I went to the post office to pick up a package.  I enjoy going to the post office.  It reminds me of the island where home delivery isn’t part of life.  A daily trip to the post office to clean out the junk mail in the PO Box and catch up on gossip with everyone you run into is a big part of the island’s social fabric.  Without that trip to the post office widows would be isolated, new islanders would remain strangers, and everyone would forget how old their neighbor’s children are.  Not to mention who’s cheating, who’s stealing, who’s dying, and the occassional who’s happy.

Going to the post office in Brooklyn to pick up a package is a particularly joyful experience because it beats the give and take grudge match one has to endure when trying to get a package out of UPS’s custody.  Twice since moving to 250 I’ve sent nasty emails to the CEO of UPS complaining about their lack of service.  Their system consists of sending my package by the house, leaving a post-it note on the door three days in a row to tell me I wasn’t home, and then an address in Queens where I can find my package. 

After the first of these I did my research and learned that the Queens detention center is located far from any subway line and open from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday.  Being that I work 9 to 6 Monday through Friday and rely on public transit I called UPS and asked them to relocate my package to a detention center in Manhattan that is open until 9pm and located up the street from my office.  UPS informed me that this would be impossible.  Odd coming from a company whose primary function is the transfer of objects from one location to another.  Both of us unwilling to bend, I called the sender and asked them to recall the package and give me a credit.  I’d buy that raincoat from a brick and mortar store, thank you.

The post office that I adore so much, is open on Saturdays and located in my zip code.  And so, last weekend, I walked up Flushing Avenue to get my mail.  On the way is a low income housing project.  The yard is frequently full of the project’s less than functional residents, sitting on the wrought iron fencing, holding their brown paper wrapped bottles and shouting or laughing or both at one another.  It’s possible to cut diagonally through the project’s lawn as a short cut to the post office.  Being daylight I thought ‘what the hell?’ and entered the gate, trying not to draw attention to myself.  The groundkeeping crew was at work and I figured if any trouble came my way they’d have quick access to the NYPD.  Then I thought ‘Unless the crew is made up of criminals fulfilling their public service requirements’  followed by the thought ‘if that’s the case maybe I’ll see some celebrities.’

At the center of the project is a swimming pool.  Who knew?  Being that it was 100+ degrees that day the pool was logically closed.

I also witnessed an aged Chinese woman performing some sort of ancient (I guess) martial art with a child’s toy sword.  She was graceful going through her motions, slowly slicing the air with the sword, delicately lunging and reaching.  The courtyard had trees and paths and a small playground.  Birds chirped.  It was much more pleasant on the inside than on the street. 

Coming out the other side, I crossed to the post office and waited in the long line with my neighbors, most cursing in one language or another at the slow pace, angrily eyeing the overly made up woman who was trying to flirt her way to the front of the line, critical of the obese postal worker who refused to search for more than one package at a time, and bonding with each other over the shared burden of having to wait.

I wondered if any of these people would become familiar to me.  Would I live in the neighborhood long enough to know their faces, their names, their stories?  Probably not, I don’t get that many packages.  But, a week later, I’ve forgotten about the heat of that day and the worry of crossing the projects.  Instead, I’m left with the memory of the post office.

Sunday morning I woke up with the sun, but lay in bed reading a comic book and playing with the cat I’m watching this summer (Kingdom Come with artwork by Alex Ross; my friend Alan’s grey Persian Akeru while he’s in Vermont performing in The King and I). 

Around 9:30 my phone rang, caller ID clearly showing it was my friends in New Jersey, Luswin and Fritz.  For whatever reason, Fritz had acquired a faux-English accent and claimed to be Mayor Bloomberg.  I played along and we agreed that the city was in a fine state, but the nation could use a late entry independent candidate into the presidential race.  And then he asked me what my plans were for the day. “I’ll probably go to Target and buy a cookie jar,” I said.  “Well,” he said, “what would you think about slapping on some sun screen, grabbing your Yankees cap, and meeting us downstairs in two hours?”

True to his word, two hours later Fritz, Luswin, and Kathy pulled up.  Forgoing the Yankees cap (I don’t own one), we headed to the Bronx and Yankee Stadium.  Not being sports fans, Luswin and I passed the day discussing which players filled out their jerseys the best and who near us in the stands could do without the extra Michelob.  Being sports fans, Fritz and Kathy spent the day discussing the line up and the infield’s batting average. 

Luswin, a transplant from Colombia, single handedly setback immigration reform by talking through the Star Spangled Banner.  “Do I have to stand if I’m not American?” “Who’s singing?” “Look at that guy over there.” “Did I show you my new cell phone?” ”I like how the pin stripes cling to their curves.” “We went to the beach last weekend and there was a family of sea lions down a ways and when I said we should get closer to them Fritz said that we should leave them alone and I convinced him that we should get close enough to take some pictures, but they were further away than they looked and so we got ice cream instead.”

As we settled into out seats, Kathy had the misguided notion that she could make me understand the nuances of the game.  She explained to me how batting averages are calculated and who was who on both teams.  Fritz knew better and brought hot dogs and beer without the expectation that I’d leave the day a greater man.  I was happy to be with friends out in the sun. 

After the 7th inning stretch, with our sunscreen wearing thin and the Jerseyites facing a long journey through four boroughs and a length of the turnpike, we dusted off the peanut shells and headed back to the car.   Where we sat waiting our turn to exit the parking garage.  Luswin fell asleep, Fritz theorized on what the new stadium’s parking will be like, Kathy littered the car, and I tried to figure out exactly where we were in the Bronx. 

Arriving back at 250, I said good-bye and thank you to my friends, and they drove off, leaving Brooklyn and heading for the bridge and tunnel that would take them home. 

Last weekend my friend Michael visited from Boston.  Michael was the first person I met when I moved to Boston.  He was sitting on a bar stool in a coffee shop up the street from my apartment.  I asked for the sugar, he handed me the Sweet n’ Low, I asked if that was a hint.  He had just moved to Boston from Wisconsin a few months earlier.  We talked about being new in Boston, how New Englanders are difficult to meet, and became friends. 

While he was staying with me in Brooklyn, we went to a bar in the East Village.  A few other friends of his were also down from Boston and met up with us.  One of them was a man whose name I can’t remember.  But he had lived in New York a few years ago and he was excited to be back.  It came out in the conversation that he was born in Pune, India.  “Pune?” I asked. “Did you ever take the train from Pune to Delhi?”

“Of course!” he said.  Everything about his conversational style was exciting.  “Whenever I go home to visit relatives I always go to Pune and Delhi!  But now the airfare is not so expensive, so I fly instead of taking the train!”

“I see,” I said.  “And tell me, on the train between Pune and Delhi, is there a stop called ‘Monkey Hill’?”

“Oh yes!” he said. “How do you know about Monkey Hill?!  It’s a wonderful place.  The train stops and everyone gets out and feeds peanuts to the monkeys and takes pictures and laughs and has a great time!”

I knew about Monkey Hill from my friend Nisha.  She was another English teacher in Grenoble and grew up in Pune.  She wasn’t as excited about Monkey Hill as this guy, but close.  I can’t imagine being on a train, probably in a rush to get from one place to the next, and have it stop halfway so everyone can go feed the monkeys.  I can’t imagine buying a ticket on a train with a scheduled monkey stop.  “Express train only, please” I’d probably say.  “I’m in a hurry and not much of a fan of the monkeys anwyay.”

Nisha would smile when she spoke of Monkey Hill.  “They dance and do tricks and pose and wave for pictures!” she told me.  I wasn’t sure if I believed her.

But, here I was, walking down Avenue A with a stranger who glowed at the mere mention of Monkey Hill.  We started our conversation discussing the differences between Boston and New York, but ended with him reliving his childhood in Pune, feeding the monkeys.  “You should see all the pictures I have of Monkey Hill!” he told me.  

Lost in thought, I wondered what the US equivalent of monkeys would be.  Squirrels, perhaps?  Buffalo?  Rats?  I wondered if Amtrak added a stop called Groundhog Hill on the route between Boston and Philadelphia if more people would make the trip.  And with the growing ease of air travel in India, what will happen to Monkey Hill if train traffic becomes a thing of the past?

Someday, I’ll visit my friends in India.  I’ll be sure to see the Taj Mahal, the faithful bathing in the Ganges, and the Aga Khan’s jewels.  And I’ll pack a bag of peanuts to feed to the monkeys at Monkey Hill.

“You lost Joel?” Marcos was leaning over the railing from the third floor landing. He gripped the banister and looked down at me standing on the fifth step. Francesco was at the top of the stairs, his boxers Lucy and Rocco watching silently. Even Guido the yappy Chihuahua held his bark. For a change. ”You LOST Joel?” Marcos repeated.

“I turned around and he wasn’t there,” I said nervously. How do you explain not coming home with your neighbor? 

“Did you call him?” Francesco asked.

“He didn’t take his phone with him tonight. He was wearing tight jeans and said it would ruin his lines.”

“Where were you?” Francesco asked. 

The night began innocently enough.  Craig called to say he was heading into Manhattan with two friends visiting from Montreal.  I hadn’t seen him in a few months and we’d been playing phone tag, so I decided to turn a Sunday night doing laundry into an evening.  Joel was hungry, so we headed out to grab a bite before meeting Craig.

“I was standing on the corner of 8^th and 23^rd with Billy yelling at me for not going to the Eagle earlier and Craig was mad at the Canadians …”

“You LOST Joel in Chelsea?” Marcos inserted. ”How do you lose Joel, he’s not THAT small.”   Marcos lives in the apartment directly above mine.  He grew up in New York.  Recently shaved head, new tattoo, saucy attitude.  He periodically knocks on my door or sends text messages asking to borrow my mop.  He always has a supply of chips and salsa, a stack of comic books I haven’t read, and a huge collection of DVDs I’ll never get around to borrowing.

“Where did you go?” Francesco asked.

My mind was addled. ”We went to Xes. To Drag Queen Karoeke,” I said. Then softly added “it was Craig’s idea.”

“Who is Craig?” Francesco asked. 

“The pilot,” I said, as if that explained anything. ”Joel was in the bathroom and Craig went to get another drink and when he came back he told me to go talk to a lesbian from Sarasota he’d just met. And when Joel came back they decided to go to a different bar. And then he told that joke about not having television in the Philippines and her brother thought it was funny …”

“You lost Joel to a lesbian from Sarasota?” Marcos asked.

“And her brother,” I said. 

I was worried, Marcos was laughing, and Francesco stayed calm.  “He’ll be fine,” Francesco said. “He knows Chelsea and if he doesn’t have cab fair he has friends there.”  Francesco has a soothing presence, a voice like velvet and smiling eyes. 

But tonight I wasn’t sure.  I took Joel out and then came home empty handed.  I continued: “When we left Xes, Billy and the Canadians finally showed up, there was some commotion, and when I turned around Joel was gone.”

“Who are the Canadians? How many people were you with?” Francesco asked, the dogs still quiet, their eyes darting from one of us to the other.  

And then the downstairs door opened and we heard the heavy thump of Joel’s Kenneth Coles climbing the stairs. 

“Joel!” I shouted and grabbed his shoulders when he came in sight. 

“Don’t touch me,” he said and pushed past up to the third floor landing. ”You left me with those weird people.”

“Where did you go?” I asked. ”I thought we’d find you in a bathtub full of ice and your kidneys missing.”

“So did I!” he said, his almond eyes round and gelled hair standing a little higher.  “We went to another bar and you and your friend never showed up.”

“What bar?  How did you get away?” I asked.

He sat on the top step and removed his boots. “I told them I was going to the bathroom, then left and hailed a taxi.”

“I knew you’d be OK,” Francesco said and moved the dogs back inside his apartment.  

“Anyone have any milk?” Marcos asked, the night’s drama neatly concluded.

“I’m sorry I left you.  I was distracted and couldn’t find you,” I offered.  I knew it was a pathetic thing to say.

Joel shook his head, the vodka and tonic having an effect still.  “You left me.  Alone.  With those people.” 

“Is it true the one was the editor of Out?” I asked.  “Craig said he was the editor.”

Joel gave me the look, climbed down the stairs and went into his apartment.  His door closed tightly, the sound of the deadbolt echoing in the stairwell. 

The night over, I went back into my apartment, content.

 

They’re at it again.  In the evenings I can hear the wild cats in the gardens behind my Brooklyn apartment.  They play hard to get before finally going at it.  On the street side the song from the local ice cream truck plays into the night, his customers staying up beyond bed time tossing a ball or skating or engaging in their own mating rituals.

My new apartment is in an old building; four rooms in need of some Tyrus Loving Care.  I’ve been here since April Fools Day, pulling bastardized shelves off the trim lined walls, painting them, hanging curtains, fretting about the ugly probably asbestos made tiles throughout the apartment, wondering if the roaches will make an appearance, contemplating the security of that window that filled with water during a rainstorm, assessing the lean of the kitchen and the smallness of the bathroom. 

Old friend Marc (ten years this June) has been out twice to frustrate at my slow pace and disorganization.  New neighbor Joel appeared one Saturday to insist I take down the cupboards in the kitchen.  Upstairs friends Marcos and Francesco invite me up to their dens of cleanliness. 

From just over one month ago, I can see progress.  The flaming orange that once covered three walls is now restricted to a heating pipe.  A set of empty shelves grace one wall.  The refrigerator resting in a new spot.  But still living out of suitcases, it’s time to buy some furniture.  And a pot (or two) to cook in. 

And in the night the cats call.  Their song a taunt to those “sleeping single in a double bed”.  But their presence a smiling reminder that rats don’t dig in the trash cans.  And that life punctuated by sounds from outside my four rooms continues, progresses.