David Sley

Around 9:00pm on Cinco de Mayo, Bruna followed me and Jasmin downstairs as we were packing up my apartment into a rental truck. A speeding Ford Expedition struck her. Miraculously, she is fairly unscathed. Enclosed are some photographs of her time in the hospital so far. She will come home with me this evening.

Jasmin has correctly noted that both Bruna and I have been hit by large SUVs, while acting foolishly, and we both miraculously came away with no damage other than some pain to our left (hind) leg. We’re quite a pair. I’m thrilled she’ll come home today.

 

A non-wealthy professor I greatly admire once told me that every time he went into the city for business, he would try to remember to stuff a pocket with spare change from a bowl in his house. As he meandered the urban canyons, he would dispense with the money in various cans, cups and hands, until his business was accomplished, and the money all spent. This man lived an ascetic existence, regularly going without, and so a fellow student felt compelled to ask him a simple question, “Why?” He gently admonished the young scholar, stating that it was surely not his place to judge, and by all international standards of wealth, he and his family rested on a pretty flat end of the money bell-curve.

This made wonderful sense, and resonated deeply within me. Altruistic, and full of spare change, I have set out to be equally generous in my new home of Manhattan. The Sunday after moving in to my apartment, I called my old roommate Peter (now at Columbia Med) to meet up for brunch. After a non-responsive half-hour, I assumed he was on call at the hospital, and I made my way to Starbucks. The inside pocket of my jacket began to vibrate momentarily after sitting down into one of Starbucks’ over-plush leather chairs, scone in hand.

Peter really wanted to meet up, but was running late. I tucked my scone into the paper bag, dropped it into my messenger bag, and hopped on the subway. After breakfast, as I walked back down the tunnel of stairs to the subway platform, an older ragged gentleman scooted towards me, and asked me for some change. Having none, I offered him my scone, which he happily snatched from my hands. I heard his “thank yous” echo through the subway walls, as I swiped my card to await my train. As the train approached, I turned around to see the old codger handing off my scone to another in exchange for what appeared to be a dollar bill.

Disheartened and rather disillusioned, I boarded the train.

Today, I took Bruna to the park in the rain. The light rain was quite refreshing, and we hopped around mud puddles, as Bruna tried chasing every squirrel in Riverside Park. The afternoon was a splendid capstone to our time here on the West side, as we prepare for our great migration to the Far East on Tuesday. As we entered a muddy tunnel, I noticed an old man sleeping under some soaked newspapers. Not wanting Bruna to disturb him, I reeled her in. As we slowly walked past him, I heard the very loud and familiar tone of a T-Mobile cell phone.

A) I have Verizon
B) My phone was on silent

I turned around, and saw no one behind me. On the third ring, the mound of papers rustled, a face emerged and out came a slurred “Wazzup?” So, now the homeless in Manhattan tote cellphones. Next time I drop change in a random stranger’s cup, perhaps I’ll ask him how many minutes and texts per month are included in his plan.

ADDENDUM: Last night Jasmin reminded me that a few months ago we wandered into a Starbucks and found a homeless man surfing the web on his laptop.  Manhattan remains full of curious oddities.  I’m not alarmed at this, really.  Indeed, if housing prices rise much higher, I might just fill up my Gregory trek pack, and save a few grand a month living out of it.

Alternatively titled, “A Tale of Two Concerts.”

Since the dawn of the conch shell and the shofar, my brief and inconcise study of history leads me to conclude that musical concerts have marked epochs in history (both personal and categorical). Put another way, history distilled into metered tones and time has dramatically changed over the course of history, and if I play you a song, you can probably tell me a few random facts about the work’s historical context.  Furthermore, we can individually mark our own lives through momentous concerts that halt time, upon which we can reflect and elaborate.  At least this is certainly true in my life.

The summer after my freshman year of high school, my father invited my sisters and me to join him on a business trip to Manhattan.  Most of the four days were rather forgettable, but one evening I will not forget.  I had never attended a concert before (well, the last time I’d been to a concert was for Amy Grant, and my mother threw such an awful fit we left a few songs in).  Not a decade later, my father redeemed himself by scrounging up tickets for the four of us to attend Paul Simon and Bob Dylan’s concert at Madison Square Garden.  I was utterly elated (and I think my sisters were a little confused).  We walked in after the lights had come down, and found our seats on the left side of the Garden, about two-thirds of the way back.  We had a decent view of the stage, and I was still in absolute shock and awe.  The songs are timeless, but I was too young to remember the playlist in perpetuity.  Notwithstanding, I most remember the swaying arms with lighters atop.  As an uninitiated concertophile, the ritual seemed to be some tribal rite; a unity of some sacred brotherhood of damn good rock, perhaps?  All I remember is the community.

[A lighter is a personal thing.  I often feel naked without mine, and when it’s misplaced, I will upend my apartment in a frantic search.  It’s my diminuitive lost sheep.  It must be found and returned to the fold of my pocket. Lest you get the wrong impression, a lighter is a useful tool, and not just for the occasional cigar(illo), but also to light the oft-smouldering incense, or melt the wax to seal a letter, or light a candle wick. Not so ironically, these are all very communal activities in my life.]

For a very brief evening, the packed-out Garden became a family, and we all listened as our fathers sang their wisdom to our ears.  It was an utterly primal areligious worship.  But, worship nevertheless.  The people may have bowed and prayed, but our gods weren’t neon, they were bonafide legends.  Frustratingly, my experience at this concert was truncated too… my father took us back to our hotel after the first set, because the purple haze had settled in rather thick.

A full-decade later, I attended a second Manhattan concert.  This time at the far-smaller Fillmore theater near Union Square.  Yann Tiersen was our performer du jour.  No, I didn’t know who he was either, but Jasmin informed me that he did the whole Amelie soundtrack. To be fair, the music could not have been more dissimilar from Paul & Bob’s.  Where they croak and croon ballads, Yann(i?) stamped on his wah-wah pedal, which was wired up to all kinds of synths (and an accordion!!).  This resulted in a very cool orchestrated cacophony.  I liked it, but I felt like an observer as I peered over the balcony rail and looked upon Yann’s tranced minions, while sipping my poorly-poured Guinness.

Community was lost.  The swaying arms of lighters had devolved into the measured and calculated photographs of wannabe-paparazzos working desperately to find his or her fifteen minutes (nano-seconds?) of fame on Facebook.  Simon’s “neon gods” had found us, and they were 3G.  What was once a communal experience had become an “online community” experience.  My contemporaries were acting like tween girls at a Miley Cyrus concert, and the rhythmic sway of the lighted flame had given way to cellphones ablaze with “txts, pix, and YouTube caliber vids.”   Jasmin must’ve noticed my disdain, and ribbed me, to alert me of our impending departure.  I swallowed the last frothy bubble of Guinness foam in my cup, and we wandered out into the preternatural April evening chill.  I pulled my coat collar up like a mock scarf, and we embarked toward the subway.

Much frustration still emanates from this endeavor.  I feel much more distant from my yuppish Manhattan concertophiles.  Music ought to be communal. Something has surely been lost in the smoke, and concertophiles are now as sterile as their hyperlegislated musical venues (ahh, but for another time, friend).

The forces began coalescing last Saturday morning. Well, it might not have been “morning,” but suffice to say, it was long before I intended to leave my bed. I’d woken up a few hours earlier to walk Bruna through Riverside park, and then returned to my slumber. Until a few moments ago, she had been pleasantly snoring at the foot of my bed. A recent hustle of feet up and down the stairs had stirred her to her haunches, and she rocked her ears forward, as if they wanted to stand up, but were just too damn floppy. Then it started.

It always begins with a deep, low purr (of sorts). But it grows into a rousing bark. Not just one bark. A chorus of barks. Those who have shared sleeping quarters with me, will know of my talent .. gift, really.. to sleep through most everything. And this impromptu bark fest was no exception. I rolled over, boxed Bruna’s ears, told her to shut up, and tried to return to dreamland. But it was too late. I could hear the choir of dogs living below us answering Bruna’s call to arms. Like a little chattering, the beagle, pomeranian, and chihuahua were all ready to swarm the unsuspecting feet meandering the stairwell. This went on for a moment or two, until..

I heard it, a shrill, angry human voice shrieking from under my bed, “STOP IT! make it STOP!” The voice did not sound pleased with the recent dog song. In defense of the canines at 317 west 77th, it was well past noon, and well, dogs bark. Some have loud barks, some have guttural barks, but all dogs bark. C’est la vie. My new neighbor directly beneath me must be confused on this point.

moments after the aural infraction

Fast forward to last night:
As I prepare to leave for the West Side Market, there is an unsuspected rap on my door. I open the door to find two girls about my age. One introduces herself as my new neighbor.. the other? Oh, she’s just her friend, tagging along for moral support, no doubt. Neighborgirl then begins her well-rehearsed (but poorly memorized) speech. She began by telling me she’s a teacher, and she has to wake up early. Since moving in Friday, she’s noticed I do not go to bed early. She really wanted me to roll-over and respect that fact that she has chosen an underpaid profession, and works very hard. Lest I remind you: she’s judging my chosen noise/sleep factor by observing two weekend nights. It’s a free country.

She didn’t ask me what I did 9-5, her moral superiority complex left her knowing that she was better than me, and I ought to obey her. She’s the teacher, damnit, and if I don’t listen, she can give me a detention. Then she fixed her eyes on my furry friend galloping around behind me and said “I LOVE dogs, yeah love ‘em. My family has a black lab.” Wow. A bonafide dog connoisseur. She then opined that she just wanted Bruna to not do all the things Bruna likes doing… Like galloping around the apartment pretending to be a little moose. Or throwing a bone in the air and taking great solace in the reverberating thud it makes on the floor… or the occasional bark-a-thon. Apparently, these are horrid and unruly behaviors. Her friend gave me a furrowed brow. Neighborgirl meant business.

She didn’t want me to DO anything, per se. She just wanted me to NOT make noise, or walk on my floor, or play music, or view films after, say 10pm? I could surely do that, right? ANY decent person ought to do that for a TEACHER, right? I smiled, assured her I would try to calm Bruna down (really? it’s like telling a baby not to cry), and she thanked me and left. As Jasmin and I walked to the Market, we had a good laugh at her inane passive-aggressive pseudo-confrontation. As Jazz said, “inside of every teacher, there’s a little cop.” It’s true, and this one is just coming to grips with the fact that being a nice person who does Teach for America doesn’t entitle you to boss around your neighbors.

I am never comfortable with those who refuse to bluntly state their case. Instead, they try to apologize for their own insecurities in confronting me by being inexorably passive aggressive (and bringing friends along for moral support). I really, really despise the behavior, and am still pissed that Michael couldn’t have moved to Manhattan sooner and commandeered that apartment. I’m working on forgiveness, man.