Countless strange happenings unfold outside my window as life plays itself out on the city sidewalks. We live our truths and our lies out there daily. Even the most outlandish behavior garners little to no attention at times. It just depends on when and what it is. I know because when I called 911 on my carbon monoxide detector and two massive fire trucks pulled up unloading its army of firefighters marching through with axes; I assumed it would be attention grabbing. The firetruck lights were flashing like a Studio 54 disco off the limestone townhouses. Light had to be flooding through unshuttered windows. But no one really cared. No eyes peeped out windows, no looky-loos in bath robes and curlers came to huddle up and watch in gossipy groups. Nothing. I have even come home to a photo shoot on my building steps that did not receive any double takes. It turns out there is one thing that will draw a crowd from even the most obdurate citizens.
The heat from the radiator on the bottom, basement level of our duplex apartment pours in heavily. Unlike the upstairs, ground level floor we cannot shut off the radiator. During the winter months I open the dungeon door to combat the dry heat. I tend to open it when I get home and at times we even sleep with it open. It’s going to be 38 degrees tonight? Perfect, open the door. I have blankets to snuggle. Said dungeon door leads to a solidly bricked in 4 X 4 space that leads up at least ten feet to a sturdy grate to the building’s brick courtyard where the trash and recycling are kept. Guests tell me it is a really weird thing to have in an apartment, but I like it because that is where I put people when they are bad and deserve to be tortured. Okay, not true. The screams would too easily be heard from the street. Still haven’t figured out if that would draw suspicion or not. The point is, it is plenty safe enough for me to have the door open.
The downside to magnificent al fresco sleeping is that anything out in the streets comes in smell wise. Like smoking. God, I hate that smell. It is my biggest pet peeve and always has been. When I was younger I would cover my nose with my shirt. I do not care if it is rude. Sometimes it is the regular brands, but other times it is either cigars or cheap, Turkish cigarettes. Less disgusting, the smell of skunks, I mean pot. I hate typing the words ‘smoking’ and ‘cigarettes’ and usually go out of my way to not speak it or write it. So now I am going to stop. Ugh, repulsive. So gross. At the first pungent whiff of any offending smell we bolt to the door and close it, sealing out the stank until the air is clear and breathable again. It doesn’t seem too many that live around us do that thing I hate, so usually it is just a passerby.
I was upstairs when the offending scent wafted up to the first floor. Even though there is a spiral staircase with a large opening between floors, whatever happens downstairs usually stays down there as long as our first floor windows are closed. Cohabituer exclaimed, “The door must have been left open downstairs. That smell is coming in. Wow, that is strong.” Seconds later it was almost hazy and we realized that is not normal smoke. Soon we heard sirens and dashed to put on our coats. I had some being nosy to do. I needed to figure out how close it was to threatening my apartment. I need to find pants.
The street was flooded with foggy, acrid smoke. I started looking up and around to see if any of the buildings were on fire, especially ours. Fire personnel were three buildings down raking and tending to the sidewalk that was in glowing, red flames. What the heck!?! Garbage fire maybe? It is not uncommon in the subway tunnels, but I guess litter could catch fire anywhere? This is a first for me.
I was surprised to see how many people came out from their hermit huts to see what was on fire. It was not possible not to smell it. With most of the street being erected in the early 1900’s, even with renovation converting the single-family homes into multiple units, the windows are not particularly durably sealed. The people wanted to ensure their building, or the one next to it, was not an inferno. I saw people from my building I had never laid eyes on.
A younger woman with dark hair said she knew our dog and called her by name. At some point with only ten units in a our building we should have been coming and going at the same time, but no. I would have recognized someone near my age in the building if we had ever crossed paths. I couldn’t resist asking what apartment she was in. She was up on the third floor. This tidbit prompted me to make a building chart on my phone of who lives where. Feels important to know.
Another younger couple came up the stairs. They said hello to the three of us and mentioned they just moved in. Okay, at least there is a reason I do not recognize them. At the mention to my third floor neighbor that my cat sits in the window sill and judges the Upper West Side the almost strawberry blonde, European woman apologized for eavesdropping and joined the conversation gushing over her love of cats. She had to leave hers behind with her family in Amsterdam when they moved. It turns out she misses her cat so much she offered to cat and dog sit for me. Second day into 2020 and a fire turned into a gift. Good things come in surprise packages. I get good vibes from her and I happily agree for free sitting service as we exchanged phone numbers wondering if she knows I will seriously track her down and ask when the time comes. I mean… I know where she lives, it is the fourth floor. It is on my new building chart.
The hype outside died out quicker than the fire itself as people quickly grew bored and went back to their apartments. Later while walking Miss Dog, Cohabituer discovered the fire was… drum roll, please… a pile of dried out, discarded Christmas trees. Only one of the three that composed the conflagration remained, left charred on the concrete. No clue how they caught fire while laying in the trash pile on the curb of the sidewalk. Dry trees plus fire… I am going to go ahead and blame a portable incendiary device… what is that you ask? Smoking!!!! (This is not verified). Now everyone should quit right now and this dirty little, smelly habit becomes extinct. If not for yourself, do it for me!
When the owner of the parked car comes to move it they are going to find their front bumper melted off from being curbed next to the tree fire pile. They probably won’t even be aware the fire happened, the pile will be gone, and they will be left scratching their head angrily mystified with nowhere to get answers. All they will have is scorched pavement that, months later, still marks the spot. And people wondered why I didn’t want to take a car with me when I moved to the city.
New York Nobody 