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Archway Publishing - Jeff Namian

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42 pages

English

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Love thy neighbor?
If you live in New York, think twice. I know the guy who dusts in the nude across the street better than 5G. (I’m 5F) We waived. In the city, that constitutes a date.

When you live in New York, you innately grow a thicker layer of skin. Like a shark’s hide. While many view this layer as arrogance, they fail to realize the intensity of navigating millions of people each day just to get to work. Add grocery shopping en route home (slithering down a three foot wide aisle with accuracy required by the luge) and you’re a Xanax away from short circuiting.

Most non-New Yorkers fail to realize that underneath this protective layer are elements of patience, tolerance and respect. If everyone cooperates, we all win. If you push somebody off the subway or dart to grab that last can of peas, you’re subject to judgment by a jury of thousands.

The theory of cooperative living keeps the city well oiled. There’s always a trap door to dodge, but it’s possible that one person per day may extend some act of kindness. It requires being alert enough to spot it, since everyone’s conditioned to hide inside their shell. But when it does happen, you feel a little more visible and a lot less cynical.

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Humorous

Fiction

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Publié par	Archway Publishing
Date de parution	27 janvier 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781665736800
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0250€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Cooperative Living

JEFF NAMIAN

Copyright © 2023 Jeff Namian.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.archwaypublishing.com
844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Photo Credits:
Instagram: @glam_by_nikki
NJ/NYC makeupartist

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3679-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6657-3680-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900583

Archway Publishing rev. date: 1/26/2023
Contents
Cooperative Living
Dead Andy
Lessons from Lucy
The Free Table
My Great Green Room
The Cocoon
Prologue
When my brother and I were old enough, our parents started bringing us into the city each Christmas. Though we lived 45 minutes outside, it was like flying to the moon.
• Checking into the Hilton and ordering room service.
• Skating in the rink at Rockefeller Center.
• Radio City and those high kicking Rockettes.
• Broadway. Madison Square Garden. Times Square.
On one trip, my mother insisted her head was freezing and her hairdo was windblown beyond acceptable (for her) so we found ourselves in Bergdoff Goodman buying her a mink hat. Just like that. When we asked our dad what was for lunch, he pointed to her head and said “she’s wearing it.” So we went to the automat. I reached into a box for tapioca pudding and grabbed a chubby hand. I screamed. No one reacted. I loved it.
Back home I exhausted the curriculum in my tiny town to earn early college acceptance. I moved into the city when I was 16. It was the Summer of Sam. I still loved it.
It’s my first day of college. En route to Shakespearian Lit, I stepped over a man on the sidewalk of Fordham Road. I alerted a campus security officer.
“I think he needs help.”
“Nah, he’s just dead. They’re on their way.” I cautiously loved it.
Now I’m an adult. I navigate eight million people per day employing accuracy required in the Olympics Luge. Space is limited. Velocity and clear pathways are mandatory. Dodging the peripherally challenged is on me, not the dude yelling into his cell. A black belt in karate wouldn’t hurt. I love it a little bit less.
Cooperative Living

If you live in New York long enough, you innately grow a thick layer of skin. Sort of like shark skin. At least I did.
While many equate this tough layer to full fledged arrogance, they fail to realize the challenge of navigating millions of people each day just to get to work and then a fresh new million getting home. Add afterwork grocery shopping, slithering down a three foot wide aisle with the accuracy required by the luge, and you’re a Xanax away from short circuiting.
Most non-New Yorkers fail to realize that underneath that protective layer are elements of patience, tolerance and respect. If everybody cooperates, we all win. If you push someone off the subway car or dart to grab that last can of peas, you’re subject to judgment by a jury of thousands.
The necessity of “cooperative living” keeps the city well oiled. Sure there’s trap doors and pratfalls, but most people find at least one person per day that extends some small act of kindness. It requires that you’re open to the idea of spotting it, since you’re programmed to remain inside your shell. But when it happens, it makes you a little bit more visible and a whole lot less cynical.
The pinnacle of cooperative living is employed by people living in co-op buildings. Here, the dynamic takes on an all for one and one for all camaraderie, since the stability of your financial investment is directly linked to that of your neighbors. If 5K defaults on their mortgage, they certainly won’t gain popularity as their screw up impacts the value of every shareholder’s investment. When it comes to gossip or chit chat, some people do it and some don’t. But when it comes to finances, everyone knows the skinny.
A simple “morning” in the elevator could easily segway into “did you hear 7-D is up for sale”?
“What are they asking,” inquires 12-G.
“I heard 950 and change,” says 10-F.
“Not a mill? Bastards. Never should have cleared ‘em.”
You see, 12-G and 10-F sit on the co-op board. They assess the financials, background checks and all around likability of anyone trying to buy into their co-op. One could financially qualify ten times over and still be rejected by the board for no reason at all. True. There are no laws governing their decision making. No explanation required.
A strikingly beautiful woman in her 30s (and a surgeon at Mount Sinai) was told “thanks but we don’t think you’re a good fit for our building.”
Translation?
We don’t want you riding the elevator with our husbands.
So her apartment went back on the market.
“She’s devastated,” said the realtor showing us the (back on the market) unit one frigid Sunday afternoon. The winds coming off the Hudson River were like a facelift.
So how did we make the move from renter to owner?
It started as an idle threat, much like a car stuck in neutral, expelling tons of energy while going absolutely nowhere. That was the expectation when I told my partner it was time to get out of Rentersville and buy something, but I never imagined anything would come of it. I just knew the reality of us becoming “rent poor” was on the horizon.
It was MLK weekend so we had Monday off. This made for a longish and uneventful three days full of “what do you wanna do. I dunno what do you wanna do?”
You see renters fill their spare time with the gym, brunch and shopping while owners stay home and stain wood.
Me: We need to do something drastic.
Him: Why?
Me: Because we’re stagnating.
Him: Like what?
Later that afternoon, I walked the dog, had brunch with a friend, masturbated, then went to the gym, a quintessential renters day. When I got home, there was a little surprise.
Him: Check it out (while unbuckling his jeans).
Me: What are you doing?
Him: It’s a dragon.
Me: ?
Him: You said we needed to do something drastic.
His drastic move was a navy blue tattoo, engraved on his right hip. Not the earth shaker I had in mind.
So the next morning we headed out early to a few open houses. First stop Harlem, which sounds worse than it is to people who don’t live in New York. The apartment was billed as a “real” two bedroom with huge potential.
Translation? Dump.
I buzzed the apartment but there was little need to do so as the front door of the building was not only wide open but practically dangling on one rusty hinge. The lobby seemed about as secure as the southern border.
A realtor (Missy) greeted us in the lobby with a clipboard.
Her: You’re in for a real surprise. Just need some information first.
Me: Oh sure. We’re very excited. It’s such a great neighborhood. Pen?
Sadly, the place surpassed dump. The hallway floor had a lot of “give” to it. The layout was kind of like a bowling ally with a few rooms off to one side. The rooms contained little more than lead paint and an array of rancid odors, discarded crack vials that crunched under our feet along with a dead cockroach carcass or twelve.
Squeak. Cough. Crunch. A symphony of desperation.
Me: Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.
Why I felt the need to make the realtor feel hopeful when the situation was completely hopeless baffles me. I have this habit of making people feel better about themselves than they deserve to. It’s gotta stop.
We walked outside just in time to catch the early matinee of a trannie performing a hand job on her client in a pink Cadillac. Yep. She bought it like that.
We passed by the live porn without pause as we had more open houses on the agenda, and we’d already caught this flick. Pun intended.
Despite sub zero digits, we trudged along through areas completely unknown to us. In all our years of living in the city, we rarely ventured out of midtown. I suddenly felt like a bit of a snob. So this neighborhood was also considered Manhattan? It wasn’t exactly in my personal city brochure.
Walking west, it grew colder and windier by the block, yet the neighborhoods started to improve. Less hand jobs. More in vitro twins in strollers. After passing a Starbucks our spirits lifted and our pace quickened. A frothy latte from Starbucks was a much better indication of a desirable neighborhood than a frothy eau du l’amour.
Me: (upon seeing the mighty Hudson River while descending a steep hill) If it’s the last building on the left it’s an omen.
Him: (scratching his scabbing tattoo) Mm hmm.
I pressed the bell for 4E and was buzzed in by the realtor (Doris) who was likely perched on top of the intercom like Endora just waiting to pounce. The lobby was cozy, warm and rustic. Brick walls and a decorative fireplace gave way to a mahogany elevator with cast iron t