Quantum of Solitude

Firemen: by Liz M.

(Click here or on the photos to see my video project!)

The other night I was watching the latest James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, with some of my roommates. Five of us total, four still awake. The new London import (“I just tried Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups for the first time. They’re brilliant!”) left the room. I thought he’d turned in. We struggled to focus…

“Is she the bond girl?”

“Wait who’s that guy?”

“I have no idea what’s going on…”

“Yeah I’m lost.”

“Maybe if you’d stop talking…”

“I’ll rewind.”

Our Brit had gone out for air. Usually around 2am on west 22nd the only company you’ll keep are some mice having a late night feast on your garbage. I guess the mice were not alone. Bounding up the stairs,

“Look out the window!”

Gathering around the windows facing the street. Two per window. Guy girl, guy girl. A cardboard box on fire. Presumably started by the homeless dude fanning the flames.

“Is that a 40?”

“Oh, don’t pour it—”

“Awww, duuude.”

Funny how emptying your booze on your fire doesn’t work out quite the same as a hose, eh? So yes, walk away, walk away… Down the driveway of THAT building? Really?? Hard to be surprised at this point, but come on buddy!

“Not a bad turnout –maybe people DO care.”

“Cops, firemen. Not a bad response time actually.”

“Okay, outside.”

“Quick! Get your camera!”

“I don’t wanna miss the show…”

Cops v. Perp, @ Our stoop: from my Blackberry

Just in time to watch six or so cops pick up the guy, slam him against the car in front of our house. The fire was across the street, in front of the dentist’s office, but suddenly our stoop is the best seat in the house. This is apparently a great way to meet the people you pass on the street every day without acknowledgement. The Israeli from a few doors down, all tight blue t-shirt and muscles. Cigarette and silver spoon in one hand, bowl of fruit-loaded cereal in the other.

“Do you want some? It’s soy milk!”

“Um, no thank you?”

“Can I use your phone to call the dentist?”

“Sure…”

“He said Eysh, that means fire!”

Apparently no one cares that I understand a bit of Hebrew. Oh well. Look away for one second, and now the Israeli is across the street, holding the smoke, cereal, spoon, and the borrowed phone. He allegedly “runs” our block, Mr. 22nd Street. Naturally, he is talking to the firemen as they attempt to break into the dentist’s office. Natural, right, maybe if he was not performing a balancing act.

Where there's smoke…: from my Blackberry, aussi

Back on the north side of the street with Mr. 22nd street.

“How do you spell your name?” “Well THAT’S a diplomatic way of saying you already forgot my name… So do you guys ever go to Chelsea Piers? I have free 1-week guest passes. How many of you are there? Okay great I’ll get five… It’s a shame how they treat rentals, come see the difference when the owner is the one living in the building.”

The Brit leaves. This time for the night. But three of us–girl guy girl—follow Mr. 22nd to his apparently bulletproof door (I didn’t test it…). Beautiful Turkish tile on the floors and walls. The floors donning two or three Persian rugs.

“I used to invest in real estate”

Ultimate Fighting Champion cannot be ignored on the enormous flat screen.

“I only date men who look like wrestlers, warriors. Why do you have a beard? Do you want to look like a Rabbi?”

“My mom’s a Rabbi…”

I try to steer his attention, as my roommate is getting uncomfortable. Mr. 22nd is far too intrigued by the attorney to spend more than a few moments on my attempts at discussing Hebrew and Rabbis. Granted, they are rarely topics I bring up with neighbors, strangers, anyone, but what else am I supposed to say to this guy?

Does it really take an inebriated homeless man setting a fire to meet the neighbors? It’s not like when something embarrassingly touristy happens while traveling and my mom’s go-to line of comfort is “Well, you’re never going to see these people again.” These are the people we see every day. The middle aged, slightly balding dad carrying a scooter down the steps, the lackluster of his “Come on,” not wanting to escape his air-conditioned denial as his young daughter bounds down the steps ahead of him shouting with an opposite tone to his, “It’s summer! It’s not spring, it’s summer!”

Because, really, where WAS spring? A couple weeks ago I brought out my winter coat during a couple of late night study session breaks. This weekend I read on my roof until my skin melted into a new, darker shade. This did not take long. This nine year old girl is thinking the same thing I am. And maybe the odd progression of the seasons is the least of my concerns, but I probably share some of the same thoughts as her dad, my roommates, Mr. 22nd, or even the poor homeless guy who tried to put out his fire with beer and ended up surrounded by the 5-0. Reading about this city through the eyes of Ian Frazier (Gone to New York: Adventures in the City) or Colson Whitehead (The Colossus of New York) or even a surrealist, postmodern vision of Paul Auster (City of Glass), how many times did I think, hey, that’s what I thought when I was on THAT train or in THAT intersection or THAT neighborhood. They name some seemingly unique circumstances—if you’re not a New Yorker. And I have always hesitated to call myself a New Yorker, not from a lack of wanting to belong to this vibrant metropolis, but out of respect for the true locals. I’ve always heard it takes 5 or 10 years in theory, but Carrie Bradshaw said the true natives could always spot their own kind. When I return to California in the fall, I will have only lived here a very loaded 4 years. But according to Whitehead, I may already be a New Yorker. I have been here long enough to watch some of my favorite hangouts disappear and apparently “(y)ou are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now” (Whitehead, 3-4). We all build our mythic New Yorks, and the probably intersect with the myths of others more than we will ever fully realize. I have been here long enough to connect to just about every phrase in some sections of The Colossus of New York. As an NYU student, the “Downtown” section hit hard. I know those kids. I have been some of those girls. And yes, I run into kids from my L.A. private high school on an almost daily basis even when I DON’T go out on a Thursday night.

My point is, if I’ve only lived here 3.5 years and find Colson Whitehead’s portrayal of Manhattan almost uncomfortably accurate, he’s probably not just reading my thoughts. He’s just had the same thoughts—as I have, you have, the smelly guy on the C has. Not all in unison, but at some point in time. No one will look at you on the train, but whatever you’re thinking right now, that dude thought the same thing 13 minutes ago, that woman was thinking it 22 years ago. No wonder we’re so lonely sometimes. If only we could coordinate our little moments, maybe we would understand how connected we truly are. New York is not lonely so much as a haven for untapped communal potential. But strangely, that’s how we like it.

The line that hit the hardest was that, “(m)aybe we become New Yorkers the day we realize that New York will go on without us” (10). I have to leave by the end of September. Maybe this fact is heightening my senses to embrace New York as my own, one last hurrah, or something less cliché... Or maybe I just know that it really will go on without me. I am just another young adult, thinking the same thoughts as everyone else here.