God was certainly smiling on me when, in the last minutes of my four-day search for a place to live in Manhattan, I found an apartment on E. 83rd St. I should have known that the place was – – how shall I put it – – unusual, when I ventured out that first day to forage for supper for my son and myself. In the middle of a busy intersection, an elderly woman in a wheelchair snagged my sleeve. She pulled my head down to her level. “I hear you pray,” she said. “Well, I’ve been known to do that,” I replied. How did she know anything at all about me? I’d only been in town for three hours. “Pray for me,” she ordered. “I have a touch of bone cancer.” So there with cars whizzing around us in the middle of the intersection at Second Avenue, I prayed for Nana, the 93-year-old grandma of East 83rd St.
That was only the beginning. Honey Girl, the matriarch of the block, took one look at my belongings, which filled my apartment and the hallway, and trailed down the steps onto the street outside. “You gotta do something with all that,” she yelled. “You’ll get robbed blind!” At that point, I was hoping I would be robbed, since I had no idea how everything was going to fit in that apartment. But it was August, I had driven my son from North Carolina that day, had picked up head lice from the movers, and hoped to drown myself in the shower. I had just gotten nicely soaped up, when the intercom screeched: “Get out here right now! Call 911! Somebody’s stealing your car!”
I should be so lucky, I thought, since I had no place to park and, I discovered, no need for a car anyway. But I knew if I didn’t put in a token resistance, I would have Honey Girl to deal with. I threw on a shirt and ambled down the front steps. By that time, Honey Girl had beaten up the robber, who fled down the street at the same time a cruiser pulled up from the other direction. “Already took care of it,” Honey Girl reported to the two very green cops in the front seat. “And I want this street closed off at both ends by eight o’clock tomorrow morning for our block party, “she continued. “Sure,” the two youngsters scoffed. Honey Girl hoisted her short but formidable frame through the cruiser window and grabbed both cops by the collars. “Listen to me! Now! I’m the mother of two New York City cops, and I want those barricades up at both ends by eight o’clock. Do you understand!” “Yes ma’am,” they whispered. And by eight o’clock the next morning, the barricades were in place.
The next morning, I encountered more of my neighbors. Honey Girl was the undisputed matriarch. She had lived with her husband, Bob, on the block for 40 years. She spent 23 hours of every day on the stoop at the center of the block of five-story brownstone walk-up’s, just around the corner from Gracie mansion, Gloria Vanderbilt’s high rise, and the East River promenade. Honey Girl declared coyly that she saved the remaining hour of each day for her husband. She was, shall we say, heavy. Bob worked the night shift underground repairing subway rails When her boys were very young, Bob had a massive heart attack. Honey Girl was a diabetic, but she prayed that if God would let her husband live, she would give up insulin. Bob lived, and, inexplicably, so did Honey Girl.
Big Bob and Big Mary worked as caregivers in city programs to help the elderly stay in their apartments. For who knows how many years, they sat on the stoop next door, each tuned in to separate transistor radios where they listened to whatever ballgames were broadcast. When it snowed, they sat on the stairs just inside. One year, Honey Girl decided they should get married, and she ordered Big Bob to get an engagement ring for Christmas. When Christmas came and no ring appeared, Honey Girl produced a ring and proposed for him. I think they are still sitting on the stoop, still with separate radios.
Nana lived on the fifth floor, and so used my bathroom, since she spent most of her time in her wheelchair on her stoop. More about her, TighterThanaGnat’sAssRoy, Crazy Louise and the rest of the neighbors next time.