I recently moved to a leafy upscale suburb, and within a few days, I had met all of my neighbors. It doesn’t work like that in New York.
I lived for a decade in the West Village of Manhattan, and while my neighbors were cordial — we’d grunt hello to each other along 11th Street — we never went out of our way to be neighborly. We’d complain together about the city’s unfathomable and pointless recycling program as we stuffed garbage bags into the wooden bins or share a sour look at a person driving too fast down the street. But we wouldn’t make a serious effort to connect with each other. That’s part of the New Yorker’s survival code: If you keep your neighbors at arm’s length, you’ll never have to lend them anything or remember their names or listen to any of their irritating political opinions. If only you could do the same with family.
New York neighbors know the rules about keeping your distance. Once, for instance, I realized with horror that I was walking alongside a neighbor and had about six more blocks to go before we were both home. There we were, walking side by side, eyes facing front and ignoring each other. I quickly ducked into a shop to create a little space between the two of us to avoid any awkward small talk or, more likely, an awkward and silent 10 minutes. I like to think that my neighbor saw me do that and appreciated that very Manhattan kind of neighborliness.
Another time, I was at a dinner party in East Hampton and the woman across the table from me looked remarkably familiar, though I was certain we hadn’t met. And we hadn’t, technically. But I recognized her as my across-the-street neighbor who lived in a big-windowed apartment directly opposite mine and who I couldn’t help but notice preferred to walk around her apartment stark naked for most of the day.
“I’m sure we’ve met,” I said before it dawned on me. And as we exchanged addresses and realized that we each had a box seat into the other’s apartment, it was only I who was embarrassed. I guess the kind of person who wanders around naked with the shades up isn’t the kind of person who blushes easily.
When it comes to neighbors, New York is an all-or-nothing kind of place. You’re either perfect strangers, passing each other on the street without acknowledgment, or you’ve seen your neighbor vacuum naked. There’s no middle ground. But moving to the suburbs promised a new kind of neighborly encounter. Something a little closer to normal is what I was hoping.
“Hi, hi!” A new neighbor shouted merrily at me from her car as I was unloading some boxes from my car. “I’ll be over this afternoon!”
And she was, armed with a basket of cookies, a bottle of wine, and a printed list of the things you wouldn’t know about a new place unless someone told you.
“The lady who lives in the house right behind yours is insane,” she told me as she marched into my house, “but she’s very sweet. Her son is in jail, just FYI. I don’t know what for, but I think it’s for something real, not like taxes or embezzling or something.”
She then pointed to the highlight of her list. “This is the quote-unquote good pizza place, but this is the pizza place that’s, like, fine. Don’t go to the dry cleaner next to the CVS because they were very rude to me once. They’ll tell you that you have to recycle, but you totally don’t — no one cares. Our mailman drinks. Also, we’re all trying not to go to the Starbucks because we like the little coffee place down the street, but if you’re in a hurry in the morning, you’re better off going to Starbucks.” And she went on for another 20 or 30 minutes, delivering a vividly detailed sketch of the entire neighborhood.
It had never occurred to me that moving out of Manhattan meant there would be more drama in my neighborhood somehow. Less nudity, of course, but you can’t have everything. When it comes to neighbors, I’ve discovered, there really is no normal.
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Rob Long is a television writer and producer, including as a screenwriter and executive producer on Cheers, and he is the co-founder of Ricochet.com.