One night during the winter of 2008 I had the apartment all to myself and was exercising my liver with some whiskey. Of course I purchased it from the liquor store on lex between 122 and 123--the owner loved me as I was a regular and was one of the only customers he allowed to use a credit card. Even in sobriety, I still miss that liquor store; I was never embarassed to be buying liquor in a neighborhood so rife with problems of greater magnitude.
Anyways, I was on the couch in the living room, the Queens skyline to my left, Lexington ave 350 feet beneath my terrace and a Pacino flic on my TV, when I realized I smelled smoke. When I drink, my sense of smell dulls almost immediately after the first shot. I was about eight or ten shots deep, so my smelling anything indicated it was potent. I opened the door to see if the hallway was on fire.
In 1990, a garbage fire was not unheard of. I'll never forget, one night I'm packed in the elevator after a hard day's work, the doors open at 10 and putrid, acrid smoke comes rushing into the elevator. Apparently some of the building's young thugs decided to light the recylcing/garbage on fire in the compactor room. An older lady in the elevator said something to the effect of "that's the kids doin that." I got to 33 and called 911.
No fire in the hallway. In fact no one was in the hallway. 33 was always a quiet floor. 4 or 5 of the 12 apartments up there were "new market rate apartments." I know this from being friends with my neighbors and also from spying the work order sheet from Riley, or Al. The sheet broke down whether an apartment was a regular tenant or a "new market rate apartment." I wondered who got the better services...
As I returned to my apartment I looked through the doorway (I left the door wide open, because whiskey makes me invincible) to see smoke billowing past my terrace, and clearing the roof, into the Manhattan sky. This was a new one. I bounded straight through the doorway, across the living room toward the view of Laguardia Airort and opened the sliding glass door onto the terrace. The smoke smell was strong, but it was moving rapidly past my terrace and didn't overwhelm me. I fumbled with my key to open the iron gate...I kept it locked at all times because, you know, security is a concern. I found myself hanging my head over the guard railing of the terrace looking down at flames and embers from about 150 feet below.
It is a unique experience to live in a high-rise apartment and witness a fire blazing beneath your feet. The NYFD responded promptly and knocked the fire out with one line of highly pressurized water.
My problem now was that Wing Wah chinese, over on first avenue was going to be closing soon and I needed my anti-hangover Chinese food delivered to my gentripad. I returned to the hallway to find the elevators completely shut down. 10 minutes to go before the Chinese food call would prove futile, I decided to order and have faith in the infrastructure of 1990 Lexington. Returning from the elevators, I ran into a fireman who must have been a descendant of Paul Bunyon. Other than my roommate, this was the first white male I had seen on the 33rd floor. All my white neighbors were female. Bunyon Jr. advised that the elevators would be working shortly. After a few more shots, my phone rang and identified the call as "Wing Wah Dlvry Man." He had his own number in my phone because this guy was a trooper. He'd bike Chinese all over the streets of East Harlem, sometimes carrying upwards of $100 in his pocket. One time I saw a guy in the lobby shaking his head as the deliveryman was sifting thorugh a pile of 10s and 20s. It's a statement when a tenant from 1990 is looking at you thinking, you're nuts for rolling around town on your Chinese Food bike with that kinda cash. Hey, ya gotta make a buck and I always tipped him well. I threw him an extra dollar because the booze was treating me well and why not, if this story went another way my money might have been burned to ash that night and I wouldn't be here writing to you.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Demographics Part III
By early 2007, the gentrification of 1990 Lexington Ave was in full-swing. Every week I would see a new group of white, recent college grads unloading their belongings into the lobby. To my delight, most were female. It's a unique experience--I'm a white male, I had lived there for almost half a year and was becoming well acquainted with the neighborhood, so I welcomed the chance to share my recent discoveries with a girl whom I had known for all of ten seconds. I'm sure they were merely happy to realize they were not the only newcomers to 1990 and gladly foregave my ulterior motives.
June of 2007 saw a stark uptick in new, white residents. College was out, it was time for the future corporate lackeys of America to move to New York City and chase their dream. Tensions were at an ebb and flow rate. By this time, most of the community residents of 1990 accepted that they were going to be living amongst newcomers. I was operating on some new found street instinct, booze and corporate Kool Aid adrenaline--Harlem's wannabe Gordon Gekko.
During the weekends, I would turn my 2 bedroom into a pseudo-meatpacking district lounge. The house music was flowing, the purple lighting was resonating from wall-to-wall and my terrace was the smoking section. Despite the fact that most of my friends were too afraid of making the trek to 121st street, I threw one hell of a party. The ambiance was entirely out of place for East Harlem and also a bit over-the-top for my poor roommate who just wanted to teach kids in his classes well enough so they could graduate from high school.
When my empty nightclub living room wasn't enough, I would hop on the express train to bars in the east village and alphabet city. Imbibing just enough to not black out for the return trip uptown. Many of the new white kids took taxis back from the clubs downtown, but I had something to prove. I would always get an adrenaline rush from hopping the 6-train uptown from Union Square, blasting house music on my iPod and remaining in the train car after the 96th street stop. The border between the posh and proper Upper East Side and the darkness and difference of those streets that throbbed above this de facto racist boundary--an American Iron Curtain.
* * *
The drunk walk at 4am on a hot summer night was when adrenaline overtook intoxication. Three and one-half blocks from the mayhem of 125th street, past the phone booths where the dealers hungout, to my home of 1990 Lexington Avenue. By the time I would reach the front of the building, I would be met with looks and utterances from the dozen or so youths and 20somethings on the sidewalk. Often smoking weed, drinking Henessey or 40s, they nearly always left me alone. By that time of night, the dice game down the alley leading to the fire exit had already been broken up. A street fight may or may not have taken place, without any police involvement; entirely resolved as quickly as it had been conceived. The block between 121st and 122nd on Lexington had an organic street vibe to it. One group hung out on the downtown side of the entryway, one on the uptown and another across the street. At night, the block lived, breathed and died on its own accord. Law enforcement had little or no interest in containing and probably too little muscle to confine the street culture. Furthermore, the bloods had such a strong presence in the area, no rival gangs dared venture into the territory.
In the brightness of the Manhattan night, swimming in liquor and dreams of luxury, I would often hear gunshots in the distance. Helicopters would swarm, sirens would blare, my police scanner chirped incessantly. But I was alone, protected and insulated. Perched atop my crow's nest of isolation, aloft from that deck of hard Harlem life.
June of 2007 saw a stark uptick in new, white residents. College was out, it was time for the future corporate lackeys of America to move to New York City and chase their dream. Tensions were at an ebb and flow rate. By this time, most of the community residents of 1990 accepted that they were going to be living amongst newcomers. I was operating on some new found street instinct, booze and corporate Kool Aid adrenaline--Harlem's wannabe Gordon Gekko.
During the weekends, I would turn my 2 bedroom into a pseudo-meatpacking district lounge. The house music was flowing, the purple lighting was resonating from wall-to-wall and my terrace was the smoking section. Despite the fact that most of my friends were too afraid of making the trek to 121st street, I threw one hell of a party. The ambiance was entirely out of place for East Harlem and also a bit over-the-top for my poor roommate who just wanted to teach kids in his classes well enough so they could graduate from high school.
When my empty nightclub living room wasn't enough, I would hop on the express train to bars in the east village and alphabet city. Imbibing just enough to not black out for the return trip uptown. Many of the new white kids took taxis back from the clubs downtown, but I had something to prove. I would always get an adrenaline rush from hopping the 6-train uptown from Union Square, blasting house music on my iPod and remaining in the train car after the 96th street stop. The border between the posh and proper Upper East Side and the darkness and difference of those streets that throbbed above this de facto racist boundary--an American Iron Curtain.
* * *
The drunk walk at 4am on a hot summer night was when adrenaline overtook intoxication. Three and one-half blocks from the mayhem of 125th street, past the phone booths where the dealers hungout, to my home of 1990 Lexington Avenue. By the time I would reach the front of the building, I would be met with looks and utterances from the dozen or so youths and 20somethings on the sidewalk. Often smoking weed, drinking Henessey or 40s, they nearly always left me alone. By that time of night, the dice game down the alley leading to the fire exit had already been broken up. A street fight may or may not have taken place, without any police involvement; entirely resolved as quickly as it had been conceived. The block between 121st and 122nd on Lexington had an organic street vibe to it. One group hung out on the downtown side of the entryway, one on the uptown and another across the street. At night, the block lived, breathed and died on its own accord. Law enforcement had little or no interest in containing and probably too little muscle to confine the street culture. Furthermore, the bloods had such a strong presence in the area, no rival gangs dared venture into the territory.
In the brightness of the Manhattan night, swimming in liquor and dreams of luxury, I would often hear gunshots in the distance. Helicopters would swarm, sirens would blare, my police scanner chirped incessantly. But I was alone, protected and insulated. Perched atop my crow's nest of isolation, aloft from that deck of hard Harlem life.
Demographics Part II
I spent the next several weeks drinking away my sorrows and fueling the anger I had for being let go from my company. A few interviews and a lot of job applications, yielded nothing. One day, while transporting my laundry from 33 to the laundry room in the back of the lobby a middle-aged, black gentleman asked how I liked living there.
"I love the building, the view is great, but I'm concerned because I lost my job earlier this month."
He graciously replied, "Well check the community board in the lobby, and I'll let you know if I hear about any jobs for you." I was shocked. Here I was, obviously an outsider in a building comprised almost entirely of Section-8 tenants and I was being welcomed and more beautifully, offered professional assistance. The tenant I met seemed intent on me finding a new job and being able to afford the cheap rent I was paying to live there. Completely opposite from some my previous elevator encounters...
Something else struck me though. He mentioned the community bulletin board. Community. I was living in a real community. Real people, real tenants, real rent, real problems. Gentrification. This gracious gentleman was willing to help me out despite the fact that my presence in the building quite possibly jeopardized his keeping his own home.
After a few months of residing in 1990, I realized that this community was not a transient population. The population of Manhattan who are used to moving when their 12month lease ends. The population which looks for deals, for upgrades, for luxury. Many of the tenants in 1990 were not seeking luxury, they were not seeking a place with a view, they were seeking to maintain community. Their community. A community which, while rough around the edges and plagued with gangs and drugs, was not only sustaining but is vibrant.
By mid-november, I found an entry-level position in New York's thriving advertising sector. I was off to the races once again. And as my lavish wardrobe grew and booze consumption took a newly corporate turn, I began to see the number of new faces in 1990 sharply increase.
Let's face it, in 1990 Lex, a new face is not a hard one to spot. It was never hard for me to strike up a conversation with a young female who was hauling boxes up to her new place. I relished in the fact that I had moved in first, had the model apartment on the top floor and that I refused to admit that I was a bit scared of living in this neighborhood. Despite the tensions I experienced while waiting for the few elevators to arrive in the lobby, or the dirty looks I would get from the teens while confined to the elevator car enroute to 33, most of my neighbors were entirely pleasant.
I'll never forget the one lady who sized me up as soon as the doors closed on our way upstairs and stated, "You new here, right?"
I stated the obvious and she replied, "Well welcome. And you in the hood now, so when you hear *pop! pop! pop!* just get down on the floor!"
She was polite though, spoke the truth to me and had a good fucking point.
"I love the building, the view is great, but I'm concerned because I lost my job earlier this month."
He graciously replied, "Well check the community board in the lobby, and I'll let you know if I hear about any jobs for you." I was shocked. Here I was, obviously an outsider in a building comprised almost entirely of Section-8 tenants and I was being welcomed and more beautifully, offered professional assistance. The tenant I met seemed intent on me finding a new job and being able to afford the cheap rent I was paying to live there. Completely opposite from some my previous elevator encounters...
Something else struck me though. He mentioned the community bulletin board. Community. I was living in a real community. Real people, real tenants, real rent, real problems. Gentrification. This gracious gentleman was willing to help me out despite the fact that my presence in the building quite possibly jeopardized his keeping his own home.
After a few months of residing in 1990, I realized that this community was not a transient population. The population of Manhattan who are used to moving when their 12month lease ends. The population which looks for deals, for upgrades, for luxury. Many of the tenants in 1990 were not seeking luxury, they were not seeking a place with a view, they were seeking to maintain community. Their community. A community which, while rough around the edges and plagued with gangs and drugs, was not only sustaining but is vibrant.
By mid-november, I found an entry-level position in New York's thriving advertising sector. I was off to the races once again. And as my lavish wardrobe grew and booze consumption took a newly corporate turn, I began to see the number of new faces in 1990 sharply increase.
Let's face it, in 1990 Lex, a new face is not a hard one to spot. It was never hard for me to strike up a conversation with a young female who was hauling boxes up to her new place. I relished in the fact that I had moved in first, had the model apartment on the top floor and that I refused to admit that I was a bit scared of living in this neighborhood. Despite the tensions I experienced while waiting for the few elevators to arrive in the lobby, or the dirty looks I would get from the teens while confined to the elevator car enroute to 33, most of my neighbors were entirely pleasant.
I'll never forget the one lady who sized me up as soon as the doors closed on our way upstairs and stated, "You new here, right?"
I stated the obvious and she replied, "Well welcome. And you in the hood now, so when you hear *pop! pop! pop!* just get down on the floor!"
She was polite though, spoke the truth to me and had a good fucking point.
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