Neighbor

Was thinking, just now, getting off the elevator...

I consider myself a pretty gregarious guy. I'm not so good with the small talk, but I do enjoy a conversation about anything with anyone. I genuinely enjoy my interactions with my fellow (wo)man. And I like hearing people's stories. Call it gusto.

In my early twenties I loved the city, downtown, the hustle and bustle, the verve. I got a tattoo; in part, an expression of that. Moving to a place like New York City, I thought I'd meet a lot of people and hear a lot of stories. But not so, really. And so many people living on top of so many people, we're bound to have some good give-and-takes, right? Not so, really. The first thing my first friend here said to me was, "New York City actually isn't the place to be single. It's hard to meet people here."

KZ and I were talking one day. It comes as a bit of a shock--maybe even irritating--sometimes when a passer-by says something to you, tries to strike up a conversation. Sometimes you recoil without even thinking, mumble your way through it, hurdle along to wherever it is you're going. But you stop and think, Why am I reacting this way? Why so agitated?

I came home one day last week, and I passed by a woman who was hiding in the lobby from her son who was outside drawing hopscotch on the sidewalk. I took my headphones off as we both got into the elevator. It almost seemed rude not to, not that I frequently show that courtesy any other time here. I only ever exchange the usual utterances: What floor? Fourth floor. How's it goin'? Have a good one. Bla bla bla. This time though, she saw me take my headphones off and smiled. We struck up a conversation, about headphones (buy some noise cancelling headphones, but not Bose...noted), about her son, her husband, so on. She introduced herself. Mae. She was still talking to me while she walked off the elevator and down the hallway, the door squeezing off our conversation. I smiled all the way up to the fourth floor, into my room. And I thought, Is something wrong, that such a trivial little exchange caused such a frisson of glee? Yeesh.

Anyway, earlier this eve, I got on the elevator with a fella. He asked what floor. I said, "Fourth floor." The only floor lit was four. We rode up in silence. I'm always very aware of this silence, probably because my thoughts--I'm constantly talking to myself in my head--seem that much louder to me. But I also wonder what the person next to me is thinking. There's the nervous shuffle, the search for a distraction like a cell phone or a watch. I wish I wasn't bad at the small talk. I used to call it the segue, especially when it meant initiating conversation with a gal I might've liked. Anyway, we got off the elevator and walked to our respective doors directly across from one another, never saying a word. I had no idea he lived there.

Back in mid-October of 07, I was in a time management training class for work. For one of the exercises I had to list the various roles I play to people in my life. Co-worker, brother, son, friend, roommate, grandson, and so on. I never thought to write neighbor.




G'night, New York.