Climbing Boy

Scaffolding is as ubiquitous in New York as it is mysterious. Usually it serves no discernable purpose. It merely is. Like parasitic architectural lampreys, these collections of metal and particle board cling to their host buildings, waiting ... for something.

They spring up out of nowhere, as if thrown together by teams of industrious elves overnight. On a routine walk somewhere or other, one might stare at a freshly ensconsed building and think, "Hunh... What's different?" Then over time it becomes part of the building, the texture of the neighborhood. Tress are rerouted and split. Birds and small mammals make their homes. Then just as suddenly, months later, it disappears. And like a brainless goldfish that forgets its surroundings the moment it swims onward, you stand in the same spot thinking: "Hunh... What's different?"

I can completely understand how a young boy would look at one and see nothing of its supposed true purpose or benefit — but instead see ... a king-size jungle gym. How many video game-inspired Kung-Fu dreams could be fulfilled with a posse of scrappy friends and a Saturday afternoon on one of those things? Oh, consider the possibilities. The ultimate graduation in the School of Found Toys: The refrigerator box is left far behind in our erstwhile childhood, giving way to the glorious Scaffolding.

Today I saw a boy climbing on a scaffolding outside of a deli near where I work. The woman who was minding him said firmly but encouragingly, "You be careful. That thing'll fall down right on top of you. Get down, now."

The kid replied, "Aw... Why? What's gonna happen?" He stopped climbing, but sort of lingered, a leg wrapped around a post out of reluctance and defiance, marking his territory.

"What you climbing that for?" she asked.

"What's gonna hap—"

"I never touch those things, and you're climbing all over it."

"What —" he began, but she interrupted again with a string of admonitions. Repeatedly, he could say no more than "What —?" before she interrupted again. "What —? What —? What —?" he said

"What what what!" she mocked. "Do you understand English?"

Then slowly she repeated: "Why. Are. You. Cli. Ming. On. That?"

What started out as mere concern for his safety quickly and weirdly escalated to a personal grudge about syntax. Her mood had completly changed in an instant. The original question had been rhetorical. "What you climbing that for?" If he had just stepped away and not answered, she would not be challenging the poor kid's linguistic affinity. But because he annoyed her, the question became something that demanded an answer — long after he had stopped climbing and stepped away.

Ironically, it was she who misunderstood him. He had already asked her "What could happen?" as in "Get a grip, lady. This thing ain't gonna fall. What do I have to worry about?" True, it's little more than simple, boyish bravado that probably should be corrected. But he is a boy. Talk to the kid about what's dangerous. Don't stand 10 feet away barking at him.

She had a greater chance of breaking her nose on the door of the deli in front of her than he had of being crushed under a ton of aluminum pipes. But she is the Adult, and therefore has the apparent moral authority to not only ignore his curiosity but also to insult him. I understand the concept of enforcement through fear: Look both ways before crossing the street, and all that. But a scaffolding is not a house of cards. It seems to me there are limits to the amounts of disbelief a kid is willing to suspend after a certain age, and one needs something better than unrealistic fears of death and dismemberment to get his attention.

The One I Love

I've been saying for years now that one of the supreme advantages of being in a long-term relationship is the ability to fall in love with the same person over and over. It's comforting, yet strangely, every time it happens it sort of takes me by surprise.

Sometimes when I wake Jeff up before he's ready to get up, he swats at me and grimaces and groans. But sometimes he'll wake for a moment, open his eyes just a crack, see me and smile. In that moment, his brain is working on just the basics: His heart is beating, he's breathing, he's digesting. Yet, he has the reserved energy to smile. At me.

Of course, he's off to sleep again in an instant. But for that brief moment, I know he loves me. He feels safe. He feels happy. And that's pretty cool.

New York Lesson No. 330: Blame it on the Train

It was one of those "duh!" moments when I realized an important piece of mass transit physics. Let's call it the Law of Conservation of Trains. When standing on a 7 platform in Darkest Queens waiting for a Manhattan-bound local train (for example, as I often do), and three Flushing-bound 7s and two Manhattan-bound express 7s pass before a jam-packed Manhattan-bound local finally pulls up, it's important to remember that the converse phenomenon is absolutely just as likely to occur at some point. It only seems like the dark cloud is hanging over you, because you never see the experience of the people waiting for the Fluching-bound trains until you are that person. You only see the bad-luck story when it's you, but you may rest assured it happens to every blessed one of us.

This leads to another central truth of subways: Never content yourself with the notion that the trains are late — unless there's a mass transit strike, or an overturned and brightly burning diesel truck under the elevated tracks, or some other Act of God. No. It is your own stupid fault for getting there later than you meant to. In fact, on time is usually impossible if you are not early. The one fact about subway commutes that will never let you down is their unwavering unluckiness. (This has the benefit of making the lucky times seem so much more magical.)

I am from mass-transit-be-damned Detroit, and even I know this. The fifth or sixth or seventh time I was late to work, it struck me that, yeah, I'm really just an idiot, and I really just need to leave the house earlier, and none of the dyed-in-the-wool New Yawkers I work with is going to have much sympathy for the corn pone Midwesterner.

Congrats to the Guy Outside the 99 Cent Store

I'd like to salute a complete stranger, who I'm willing to bet I'll never see again in my life, for a small act of courage.

Walking out of a 99 cent store (We call them "dollar stores," where I'm from, which I think rolls off the tongue much better, but that's just my silly Midwestern opinion) in my neighborhood not long ago, a man tapped me on the arm and said something that I found very alarming.

"Hi," he said. "I'm about to make a complete fool of myself. But I just had to tell you something. I think you're really handsome. I don't know if you're gay or not, or if you're with someone, or whatever, but I just had to tell you that."

I sort of laughed and said, "Thanks." I could think of nothing else to say.

He continued at a breathless pace: "See, I'm never in this part of town anymore, but I used to live here about eight years ago. I live in the West Village now, but I still come here to get my glasses, and while I was here to pick up a prescription, I stopped in here to get a couple of things ..."

He had been standing at the counter, paying for his stuff, when I walked in. He looked me straight in the eyes and said in a very familiar way, "Hey, how's it going?"

I had assumed that he knew me from somewhere and I couldn't remember from where, so I nodded and pretended and gave him the old "Oh, fine. How are you?" It was apparent, however, standing outside in the corner with him, that he had just been flirting.

"Well, it was nice to meet you. And yes," I said. "I am gay. And I'm flattered. Thanks."

When I told Jeff about it at home later that night, the first thing he said was, "Ah, well, I notice you didn't tell him you're married." Did it matter whether I told him or not? I didn't want to explain too much or prolong the moment. Though I was flattered by his sentiment, I was also embarrassed by the attention. I took his hand and shook it.

"Well, take care," I said. "Have a good night." It seemed like I was blowing him off, but I couldn't think of anything more graceful.

I ran the scene through my head over and over again, laughing quietly to myself for the two-block walk home. It struck me as a romantic yet hopeless gesture. Funny how often those two things are the same in certain contexts. I couldn't believe it had just happened — out in public on the sidewalk. In my neighborhood. I felt kind of proud someone felt safe enough to do that in my neighborhood.

I feel a little silly, even conceited, to mention it. (Is it possible to tell these stories without seeming conceited?) Truly, looking at it objectively, I give him a lot of credit for stopping a stranger to say what he said. Not because I'm any kind of great catch, but because it took some nerve. We should always congratulate ourselves on these little victories against self-doubt. Lord knows, I never would have done it.

Thank You Very Very Much

There's a woman on the second floor of my building who has the strangest influence on my mood. It's funny and a little embarrassing how much involuntary control she has. She's about five feet tall, has dark brown hair, except for the bits that are going gray, and is probably in her early 50s. She's sort of sagging and tired-looking, but she's much brighter when she smiles. When she's nice to me, I feel like a Good Neighbor. When she's unpleasant — which is how I usually find her — I sneer at her behind her back and roll my eyes. What's her problem?

I usually see her in the elevator or at the front door. She doesn't say much to me. I have seen her exhibit exactly three emotions: indifference, gratitude and extreme annoyance.

For instance, sometimes when the elevator stops at the lobby floor, and I'm exiting and she's standing outside waiting, I'll push the outer door outward and she'll jump. "Hi," I'll say. And she'll ignore me and step on, looking offended, even while I hold the door for her. I don't know why she always stands so close to the door. I guess she's probably expecting to open it herself. And when it opens for her, the whoosh of the air pressure briefly blowing her hair in her face, she gets annoyed and startled by another person being there.

I have no reason to take it personally, so the feeling fades before long, but her attitude always knocks my mood down a notch. I think it's because I can't predict her reaction and there's nothing I can do when she's angry. I don't know what anyone has ever done to her.

Once, while I was on my way to the fifth floor, the elevator stopped at the second floor. As she began to step on, I said it was going up. She clicked her tongue and heaved a heavy, practiced sigh, but stepped on anyway. She rode with me to the fifth floor in complete silence before heding back down to the lobby. I just sort of stared at her feet, wondering where whe was going in those slippers.

I guess I don't really know anything about her, so she can be a paper cutout of a neighbor, and I can therefore have simple feelings about her and project whatever I want onto her two dimensions. I don't know what goes on in her head.

Sometimes she just ignores me altogether. I saw her on the sidewalk near the building one morning. She passed me without a word. When I started walking behind her, she sped up, as if she were escaping me or something, stealing a sideways glance to keep an eye on me. Like I'm going to mug her at 9 in the morning? I simply passed her on the side and went on my way.

Sometimes she's nicer. If we happen to enter the elevator at the same time, and I hold the door open for her, she'll thank me. And when she exits, she'll say very politely, "Have a good evening."

I find myself often holding the front door for her, too. "Thank you very much," she'll say, with an enormous smile, as if the last thing she expected was some help from a neighbor and I came along at just the right time.

The other day was very special for her, apparently. I was on my way out to work in the morning, and she was coming in with two large plastic grocery bags. Rather than watch her fumble for her keys, I held the security foor for her and opened the outer door for her simultaneously. "Oh, thank you very much. Thank you very very much!" she said.

There's a brief thrill feeling like a Better Person those times when she gets all huffy and snooty for no apparent reason. But I think on the whole I prefer when she's nice. I don't expect ever to have to exchange much more in the way of conversation than basic pleasantries as long as I live in this building, and being nothing more than an upstairs neighbor, that is enough for me. To think that I've given her a reason to smile — her overreaction notwithstanding — brightens my outlook for a few minutes. She's so unpleasant most of the time, I wonder what the reason might be. The contrast of her suddden happiness makes me consider that there's a real person inside that skin of hers.