On the Block

I stare at the rain fall from behind floor-to-ceiling windows, the first cold day we’ve had in awhile. It’s 11am. I sit on a high stool at a wooden table and hold the coffee cup close to my mouth and blow. Bach and Mozart fill the half empty shop as I squint to scan the hundreds of books filling the shelves on the wall. It reminds me to put on my glasses. At the very top of the exposed brick there are lined bottles of old wine and a giant mirror reflecting the perfect overcast day outside and I think, no better time to write.

I've been on numerous dates lately; I'm taking a less conventional approach and it's resembled something more like a To Do list than anything else. But the stories are pretty good. I've met the good, the bad, the strange and the insane, and maybe actually someone pretty special. The thing is, I’m a sucker for good dancers and running of the mouth. My mom likes to say I have a bad picker...but the thing is, my mom says a lot of things. Like the time she left a long, dramatic voice mail still saved on my phone that declared in her slow tone, “Jenny, you almost lost your mother last night,” explaining how she had to take more than her one aspirin maximum for a headache. Or the time she explained she most certainly had given herself a concussion after a bowl fell from the top kitchen shelf onto her head, and then went about her daily business as usual. Or the time she told me she’d given up on me in her quest for grandkids, she’ll just have to wait for my brother. Thanks moms.

After I finished the two cups of coffee and the rain ended, I decided to head back up the three flights of stairs to my prewar apartment next door. As I approached the entry it was already open, and out charged my two neighbors, Jesse and Rose(sisters), under five feet tall and well into their late 80s. Jesse and Rose live on the third floor, which means every time they leave, they have to make it down and up two full flights of stairs. Very slowly. “Jesse! Jesse where are you going? It’s the other way!” Says Rose in her frail, cracking high pitched voice. I knew I had to wait this out. Jesse seems to ignore her and keeps going into the next shop. Rose looks at me for a moment, “Oh,” she remembers, “I forgot she had to drop off her shoes to be fixed.” In a shoulder shrug of surrender, Rose waddles on by me, ready to take on another day.

I've been limping in and out my apartment for the past two weeks. Injured tibia, bad Saturday night, involved a rooftop. New York night views are amazing from rooftops until screaming tenants come out to catch you and remind you it's not yours. Some say I'm getting too old for these things. And before I agree with them for too long, I think about Jesse and Rose, and my dad's bedtime stories I looked forward to every night, and I realize one day when I'm unable to live this way anymore I'm going to want a lot of really great stories to remember it by. Wouldn't you?