The Regulars

Well, let’s see. There’s Nelson the Super and his assistant Antonio. Antonio I see every day as he is busy cleaning and moving things to and fro. Nelson was on one of his many eight week vacations during the beginning of the renovation, but the day he came back he rapped loudly on our door. He wanted to see the pipe repair, or so he said, but mostly, he wanted to find out what I was up to. I don’t mind. Occasionally he will try to teach me, in broken English, something basic about how to go about doing this or that. Mostly, he leaves me alone. This is a huge blessing. There is no way that I could do what I’m doing in some uptight Upper East/West side Co-op. I’d have to have permits and licenses and fees and drawings and blah de blah. They’d have me by the short and curlies if you get my meaning. So Nelson and Antonio…I love these guys.

Then there’s the guy at Ernesto’s Hardware. He’s the son of the owner. He works there full time since returning from Iraq. There was a picture of him in uniform next to the cash register while he was deployed. When his mother worked the counter, she often looked its way. Since he’s been back I think the picture has been stowed along with his gear. He speaks Spanish and English with equal ease and little accent, making me feel like the monolingual slug that I am. Often I feel that if I could just begin a conversation, you know, sports, chit-chat, whatever, that we could be friends. But then I pay for my things and leave. Someday I’ll know what to say.

The other hardware store is much different. Oscar is the owner. Apparently he has another store in Brooklyn. Last time I was in there he was complaining that the fire department had given him a slew of citations for storing all manner of ‘unstorables’ in the basement. His place is a mess. Things stacked here and there, stuff hanging from the ceiling…you can barely find a path from the door to the counter and back. The last visit he claimed that the fire department was much more strict since white people started living up here.

Then there’s the delivery guys from Blue Bell Lumber who asked me if I was a contractor. “Well I am, yes. But this is my place that I’m fixing up”. That seemed to clear it up for them because they told me that they couldn’t figure out why a white guy was working so hard, unloading trucks and everything, with no workers. I was about to ask, “you mean undocumented labor, possibly illegal immigrants?” But I thought better of it and just kept moving my twenty sheets of sheetrock and my eleven sheets of half inch ply from the truck to the curb.

Then there are the surprises. The Fresh Direct delivery guy (groceries for the non-New Yorkers) who looked at the place and said, “whoa, you got your work cut out!” When I apologized for having such a little amount of cash for a tip he seemed to size me up along with the project at hand and gave me a smile and a pass. He could tell I was up against it. Better me than him I’m sure he thought.

And there was the Chinese delivery guy, who handed me the bag of food and then, in that vocalization particular to Asian languages, let out a prolonged, Aaahhhhh. “Berry nice.” “You do?” he asked, I nodded. “Ohhhhaaahhh” he exclaimed and, reaching his hand into the apartment, grabbing a stud, and giving it a good shake he added emphasis, “AAHHHHoHH”, apparently liking what he felt. I gave him a nice tip and he gave me many universal signs of encouragement. As I closed the door and went back to our tented enclosure I felt much better about the chaos that surrounds us.

Here’s to my pals.



Speaking of pals. This is back when Hank was little and thinking, "I better bulk up". That's the old bathroom window for those of you taking notes.