Cooperative Living
by
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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.
Wanna meet more strangers?
The co-op party is a time when people you’ve so carefully avoided insist on holing up in the lobby for a face to face meet and greet.
The announcement for the party appeared a month before on the bulletin board near the mailboxes. Ignoring it was impossible. There was a sign-up sheet. We had to attend. You can’t invisibly waltz through the lobby and pretend you didn’t know.
I signed up for red wine. Snacks, sodas and sweets were steadfastly accounted for. So was the fate of those poor soon to be buzzed out kids. Kids love sweets. Kids gets buzzed out of their brains on them. What makes it worse is that during a holiday party with wine and the parents partaking, accidents happen. Like little Mollie from 5K sliding down the stairwell like it was a water slide at Great Adventure.
There’s no advantage being the first to arrive at a child’s accident. You’re just the witness who fuels the panic.
Mother of Mollie: Oh my God, she’s bleeding.
Me: Like, a lot!
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About the Book
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.
About the Author
Jeff Namian loves stories, and strange ones seem to migrate his way. He’s a Tri-State guy, born in Connecticut and educated in New York at Fordham. He lived and worked far too long in New York City before moving to New Jersey. He crossed the Hudson, learned to drive, and discovered the hard way that skunks aren’t cartoon characters and that weeds really do grow like weeds.