I live on the 13th floor in a tall apartment building in Manhattan. A really tall apartment: Forty stories. That works out well, because I'm tall – 6' 4". Bad joke. Never mind. Anyway, there are tradeoffs to living like this, good and bad.
For example, I don't have a backyard, or a front yard. On the one hand I miss not having the greenery, or the chance to sit with a cold beer and listen to the crickets chirp as the summer sun sets – but then again, I don't have to drag out the lawn mower.
Then there's the crowds. There more people in my building than in some towns – a crowded jumble, for sure. On the other hand, so many people need services, so there's a front desk on the ground floor with a concierge who signs for packages, sends out the dry cleaning, and makes the place run. I travel a lot on business, and that's a huge help. Yuuuge.
One of the other important differences is the garbage. That's right, the garbage.
Before my wife and I separated, I used to live a white-bread suburban life, picket fence, kids, dog, and everything. I would take out the garbage every night, my ex helpfully reminding me no matter how late the hour or the weather.
There I'd be in the rain, snow, ice, in a pair of shorts or sweats and slippers and boots or some other ridiculous thing, dragging a smelly bag to the can, then dragging the cans to the curb twice a week. And don't even get me started about the raccoons. They must have had a degree from some bandit university in "Advanced can tipping and scavenging."
Which brings me to another advantage to living in Manhattan in a tall building – on every floor there is a refuse room, with a garbage chute. The garbage chute itself has a big stainless steel door on it – the kind you might find on a submarine, with handles and seals.
At the end of the day you just pad down the climate-controlled hallway, turn the latch, pull back the spring-loaded door, and drop the whole mess down the chute. You'll hear it clang and bang against the sides of the chute as the bag falls and bursts open, as things come out, and then it will land at the bottom with a dull echo-y thud. Recyclables go in little plastic bins next to the chute, and some nice guy from the building takes them away each day.
Every now and then you might run into your neighbor at the chute...talk a bit, complain about the building management, whisper about Air BnB rentals, exchange pointless neighborly chit-chat, and then return to your ridiculously small apartment. Seeing how I live alone, I don't generate a lot of garbage, but every time I drop my stuff down the chute I reflect for a short moment on the convenience of it all.
Just as I did last Friday.
I had been travelling so much I hadn't been home enough to generate any garbage. I had just gotten back from Central America that night and was exhausted, but too keyed-up to sleep. I didn't have any food in the apartment, so ordered Chinese take out, another New York staple.
It is amazing – you barely hit the "Place order" button on the restaurant web site, and a guy is knocking at your door with your food – I think he has a wok and a can of sterno on the back of his bicycle and he cooks with one hand while steering the delivery bike with the other, like an acrobatic act. "Artisanal, hand curated pork lo mein." AKA number 6 with egg roll.
I put my feet up, poured a couple of shots of tequila, and dug into the white Chinese food container, feeling the miles I'd travelled, and week's tension start to leave my body. By the time I cracked open my fortune cookie I was feeling better, even though the little white slip of paper said "Your Fortune: Eat Shit and Die." Some angry people working in that paper-slip factory! No, no, it didn't say that at all. It really said 'Destiny Awaits." Whatever.
I didn't want the apartment to smell like lo mein in the morning, so I gathered up the paper containers and napkins and leftover bits, wrapped them in the paper bag in which they came, and walked down the hall to the garbage chute. It had gotten late, and was quiet – even on a Friday in New York.
I turned the big metal handle on the stainless steel door, pulled it back, let my bag go...but as the door swung shut on its pneumatic tubes I thought I heard something – voices. The garbage clanged as it fell down the chute...I couldn't tell for sure...and then it hit bottom. Everything went quiet.
I opened the door's chute again, held it steady, and stood there silently. Definitely voices. I know tequila can do that to you sometimes, but my own issue, personally, was more often with mescal. These voices sounded real.
Then I thought I heard laughter. Faint music. More voices. I walked out of the refuse room, and listened – maybe one of the neighbors was having a party – but the sound wasn't coming from behind any of the apartment doors.
Then an idea hit me. I ducked into the stairway, and walked up a flight, to the 14th floor. All the floors in this tower were identical, each and every one. I merged from the stairwell and listened. Nothing in the hallway. I popped into the refuse room...opened the chute...and heard it again.
This was getting weird. 2am, and a party in the garbage chute? Now I was really intrigued. I had to figure this out. I jumped on the elevator, and rode it up fifteen flights, to the 29th floor. The elevator made a soft "ding," the doors whooshed open and I stood and listened. Nothing. I walked into the refuse room, opened the chute...and I could hear it distinctly now, loud, almost so I could make out individual voices.
I ran out, into the stairwell, and went up to the 30th floor, into the refuse room. I tugged on the chute door...and it wouldn't budge.
That's when I noticed the small sign taped next to the chute door, on the wall. "Chutes from floors 30 to 40 closed for maintenance. Please hold garbage until tomorrow." Maintenance? What kind of maintenance gets done on a big hole in the wall? And at 2am?
The sound had grown louder as I had gone up, so I jumped on the elevator and rode it to the 40th floor. I ducked down the hall, into the stairwell, and then went up, along an open metal staircase, one usually only used by the building's maintenance crew to work on the elevators and access the roof.
I could now hear music, loud music, and it seemed to be coming from the other side of the steel door at the top of the staircase.
"ENTRY PROHIBITED. NO TENANT ACCESS. STAFF ONLY." The message was clear, and a large metal chain, with a padlock, hung from the door handle like an exclamation mark. But...the door was propped open...with a sneaker...and the cool night air was rushing through the opening, upon which rode the sounds of music and voices, traces of cigarette smoke...and the slightest hint of weed.
I peered through the cracked door onto the roof of the building, but couldn't see too much. It was dark, and a roof like that is full of stuff – electrical equipment, lights, pulleys for the window washer's rigs, elevator counterweights, which is exactly why they didn't want tenants up there watching the 4th of July fireworks...somebody tripping over a cable might do a header off the ledge.
I pushed the door a bit...my view was impeded by a small shed, but I could see work lights and moving shadows. I snuck out the door, crept around the shed, and then ducked behind a half-high skylight that provided light for the mechanical space in the loft over the 40th floor.
There were about ten people – small people – all dressed in black, clustered around a small tower, at the top of which was an open hatch. "Chute access" was spray-painted on the tower. On the top of the tower had been mounted a winch and the thickest cable I'd ever seen. And, to my amazement...they were lowering the small people into the hatch. I looked more closely...they had eye protection...respirators...and the black clothing they were wearing seemed to have Velcro-like bristles.
They were cleaning the garbage chute, like chimney sweeps of old! Unlike the chimney sweeps of old, they had a boom box, a small bar set up, and they seemed to be having a grand old time. They'd lower one down...yell down to him...pull him up...lower another...all supervised by a very, very large black women with a booming voice and a thick NYC accent. "C'mon Simon, get yo' smelly ass back up here, we got to shut this thing down before the people in this building start waking it. It's Saturday already!"
As she said this she walked over to the door that provided access to the inside, propped it wide open with that sneaker, and they started breaking down their job site. I was trapped.
I'd have to wait it out, and hope they didn't padlock the door when they left. It was chilly up here, with the wind blowing and the tequila wearing off.
I didn't want to get spotted, so I dropped below the line of site, sat on a ledge, and looked out over the city. Manhattan is best from this point of view, I thought. No crowds, no dirty sidewalks, no blaring taxis, just a magnificent skyline, a faint schmear of stars beyond the light pollution, the twinkling light of jets landing at JFK, and, as I started thinking about all the people and lives in the city I was jangled from my reverie by a booming voice.
"Who the FUCK are you and what are you doing on MY job site?" It was the very large black woman who seemed to be in charge.
Uh oh. I had to think quick. I was still dressed in my work clothes, dark creased slacks, a button down shirt.
I stood up as fast as my creaking knees would allow. "I'm with the NYC Department of Buildings. We're making unannounced, blind inspections of chute cleaning operations."
"Oh yeah? Where's your ID card? Where's your clipboard? And I ain't NEVER heard of no unannounced chute inspections at 4:00am." 4:00am? Time had flown. "You ain't no inspector."
This was my story, and I was sticking to it. I took a quick look around, and it seemed as if the rest of the crew had left. I could vamp without an audience. "Ma'am, your attitude will be taken into consideration when I write my report, and this isn't helpful, I must say."
"Not helpful? NOT HELPFUL? Honey, I been up here since 10:00pm with these half-drunk midgets and you are trying to bullshit me with 'not helpful'? If you are a real inspector what exactly are you inspecting? Huh?"
"I'm inspecting your chute-cleaning operation."
