Back in Manhattan, 250 square feet. We go to Rite Aide wearing masks and scarfs, goggles or sunglasses even though it’s 1:30 am (we’re trying to go when no one else is there). It turns out the Rite Aide cleans their floors at that time, which is generally good but specifically bad because it’s kicking up mist and we have a fear of aerosols (I know about the floor-cleaning Zamboni only secondhand, because my role was to wait outside of the store – not too close to the entrance – to help carry things home, so that only one of us would be around (hypothetical) people. So I have no mask on, just a winter hat with earflaps into which all of my hair is tucked, which would look incongruous for this early spring night if there were anyone to see it. We can only see the police officers at the nearby station and hear a group of people in the parking lot across from it. A group of people? Surely they’re not actually in a physical group – maybe they’re at their windows? I try to peer into the lot as we pass and think I see people gathered around a car, but I don’t pause to be sure.
I don’t remember if it was before we ventured out or after we came back empty-handed that the fireworks started. It sounded like they were coming from the backyard, but I didn’t see any light when I went to the window. Who is setting off fireworks? There are enough frightening loud noises as it is.
About the backyard: this is a small building, and most of the tenants seem to have left the city. The backyard used to be easily accessed, and now there’s a sign that forbids residents from entering or from touching the door that leads out there. This is not because of the virus. It is, actually, because of us. When the building smelled of gas one night, we called Con Edison, and when they arrived they determined that what we were smelling was spilled gasoline…but then they found an unrelated gas leak, called the superintendent to come unlock the door to the building’s basement, quickly grew annoyed by his stalling, and had the fire department come break down the door. The super and the landlord were not thrilled by this and told us as much, but we did not find their argument (“you should have called us and we would have told you it was just spilled gasoline”) compelling, given that there was an actual gas leak that we wouldn’t have known about otherwise.
That evening, back in January, COVID was known but not yet looming; a gas leak was far more frightening. The Con Ed workers stayed – in the backyard and basement – until after 1 am, jackhammering and doing who knows what else. Our private suspicion was that they found illegal construction and that the new “no tenants allowed” signs are to prevent something like that from happening again. As such, since it doesn’t seem like they want people to stay away because of danger but because of nosiness, we decided that the yard might be the safest outdoor space we can access for the next…period of our lives.
But the person who really deserves to have use of the yard is a woman who lives two floors up, who’s lived in the building for decades and generally takes care of it and makes sure things are okay even though she’s not affiliated with building management or ownership. This afternoon, when I looked out the window, I saw her gardening there. Humans in the natural world! It was the best sight of the day.
