The New Yor City Boy Scout

Living in New York City -- NYC - is different in many ways. Unlike so many other places, NYC is almost all concrete. It is expensive. It is busy, noisy, and loud. Most of all, New York is a vertical city.

We live piled up on top of each other in tall buildings, in tiny apartments.

This insane overcrowding explains why we New Yorkers are both outgoing and private at the same time. We're smooshed together with 8 million other people and have to say "hello" and "how are you" and "fuggedaboutit" to each other, always ready to strike up a conversation, or we'd all go crazy.

After a day of crowded subways, clogged sidewalks, blaring sirens, endless strangers encroaching on our space, we go home.

We ride elevators up to our apartments, close the doors, and breathe a sigh of relief. Our tiny apartments are a refuge from the City's chaos: but there's a trade-off. The common complaint you hear from New Yorkers is that they are never alone, but lonely.

I never really noticed the lonely part -- maybe I was keeping too busy. I'd been living in NYC for a decade, ever since my divorce. My ex and I had lived in California for 25 years. When we finally split, a long time coming, I figured 3,000 miles was about right, so I packed up my stuff and resettled all the way across the country.

I barely had time to find an apartment, get it furnished, and settle in when work got busy -- all at once. I should have expected as much -- that's the nature of my profession.

I'm a crisis guy, helping big companies that get thrown for a loop. Did a customer find a shard of glass in your new line of organic baby food? Did your CFO got caught stealing? Did your factory in Bangladesh turn out to be a sweatshop? I'll cover all the bases - legal, PR, financial, HR. I'll set up a crisis team in a war room, and get you out of the headlines in a week, and on the road to a deep fix in a month.

One thing I won't do is judge you, or your company. The fact is that we all make mistakes. Life isn't perfect, and neither are people. We all have suffered traumas, bear scars, hidden or obvious, made poor choices at some point.

The issue is how we prepare for the inevitable, the way the Boy Scouts preach to their ranks: Be Prepared. I remember camping with my Boy Scout troop when I was much, much younger, and running thru the checklist -- a pocketknife, some matches in a waterproof tube, a compass, a map. Old school, but unfailingly reliable.

With New York such a hectic place to live, and my demanding work, I have to escape the whirlwind now and then. Every other year I go off the grid, taking a couple of weeks to recharge -- as I did in the Fall of 2012, right before Superstorm Sandy came to town.

The storm had been widely forecast, but I was determined to make the trip. I wasn't sure what I'd find when I came back, so before I left I stocked the freezer in my apartment with cold packs, and made sure I had plenty of bottled water, batteries, and canned and frozen food on hand. Satisfied, I packed my gear and went off to the Rockies for a week.

The weather in Montana was horrible -- just the way I like it. Sleet and freezing rain filling rushing streams, cold morning mists on sharp mountains, the last of the large game getting ready for winter. I hiked until I ached, and forgot about baby food and sweatshops. I lugged my camera and tripod, and captured some majestic, brooding landscapes. By the time the trip was over I had cleared my head.

I switched on the television my last night in Montana to learn that New York had taken a body blow from Superstorm Sandy. NYC had lost power, the subways had flooded, and dozens had died. The cleanup hadn't even begun -- basic services were still a mess, although LaGuardia Airport had just reopened to "limited" service. Despite everything I boarded my puddle jumper in Montana, switched planes in Denver, and settled in for the flight home, not sure what I'd find.

Four hours later I could see the extent of the damage -- or, more truly, it was what I didn't see that gave it away. It was only 5pm, but the sun had already gone down. I looked out the window as we approached, and where there should have been a giant smear of light pollution for a hundred miles, there was nothing but darkness. Pitch black, everywhere except the airport. Ever see one of those satellite shots of North Korea at night? Lights across the borders in South Korea, China...but not in North Korea? New York looked like North Korea on that map.

We touched down a bit shakily with a skid and a couple of bumps, and clambered off the plane into a nearly-vacant airport. I walked out front to find a ride, and the taxis -- well, there weren't any. Usually they circle like barracuda, nipping at tourists and the lost -- tonight, nothing. Eventually I found an enterprising driver, and we set off into Manhattan through deserted, foreboding streets.

Auxiliary police had been stationed at the larger intersections, which were marked off with pink-red flares. Their burning chemicals reflected off of windows and street signs, casting an underworld glow. The water had receded but there was debris everywhere, and blue and white panel trucks from the electric company, Con Ed, clustered in random places, yellow warning lights flashing. It was like the end of the world.

We finally arrived at my building. I paid the driver his ransom, pulled on my pack and took a look around -- and up. My apartment building was 40 stories tall, and black. Dark as night, not a light in sight. I walked into the lobby.

A few of the building staff hunkered down behind the desk -- cots, blankets, flashlights, and a portable radio. They didn't look happy, but I always took care of them at Christmas, and I knew they would tell me the straight story.

"Hey Jimmie, Joey, Vinnie - guys...what's going on?"

"We had a hurricane, where you been, in a cave?"

"Almost. Montana, just got back. What should I know?"

"MONTANA? Why the hell did you come back here?"

"It was time to come back. My trip was over."

They started laughing at me. "Your trip was over? Everybody in this building went someplace else, and you come back. We have no electric -- no lights, no elevators. No hot water, and no heat."

"Jeez guys, what do we have?"

"Well, we had some looters in the neighborhood, but we scared them off."

That was when I noticed, in a dark corner, a cluster of baseball bats leaning against the wall.

"We have gas. The gas lines are still open."

"What's the news on the electric?"

"Con Ed says three days from now, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

"OK, thanks." With that I put my pack down, and started fishing around in it.

"What are you doin'?" said Vinnie.

"I'm getting a flashlight and I'm going upstairs, what do you think?"

Vinnie chuckled. "You're on the 15

th

floor, right? Have a nice trip, and don't expect us to come running up."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine -- just keep the looters at bay."

"They're junkies and thugs -- they can't climb that high." They all thought that was hilarious, and started laughing -- a little end-of-the-world humor.

I pulled on my pack, walked back past the mailroom, cracked open the door to the staircase, and peered up. The stairs receded into the gloom, up, and up, and still higher, until they were out of the reach of my flashlight, somewhere at the 20

th

or 30

th

floor.

I walked up, pausing every couple of floors to listen. I could hear the wind. Tall buildings like this have their own little weather systems. I could hear the walls creaking a bit, but once I moved up past the fifth floor I couldn't hear the guys in the lobby anymore, and it was peaceful except for my footfalls, my breathing, and the creaking of my pack.

I'll admit - by the time I got to my floor I was huffing and puffing. Fifteen flights with a forty pound pack. I'm not in bad shape for fifty years old, but fifteen flights of stairs...is fifteen flights. I paused on the landing, and then slowly cracked open the door from the stairs to the hallway, pointing my flashlight down the corridor.

Nothing. Just the usual brown industrial carpet, and a newspaper that somebody had forgotten to bring in. I listened, but the walls in this building were thick -- one of the things I always loved about it -- and I couldn't hear a thing. Or, maybe, there simply wasn't anything to hear.

I stepped out into the corridor. The door slammed behind me with a loud bang, blown tight by the wind that was making the breeze in the stairwell. I walked down the darkened hallway, turned, and walked up to my apartment. I put my pack down, put the flashlight in my teeth, and bent over to fish around for my keys.

I was about to open my door when I heard the noise -- the soft click, like a gun being cocked, metal on metal. My senses heightened, I spun around -- to see the door to my neighbor's apartment, 15C, cracked open about two inches -- just the distance of the security chain, and we both blurted it out at the same time: "WHO'S THERE!?"

I wasn't waiting a moment longer to assert myself. "I live here! This is my apartment. Who are you?!"

"It's Helen. Helen Applebaum. And THIS is MY apartment." With that she took the chain off the door and opened it further. I shone the flashlight in her general direction -- and recognized her immediately.

That's the funny thing about New York -- we give each other space. I had been living there for ten years -- we were all always polite to each other, and said hello to each other in the hallways, but that was it. I had never learned her name -- she was always just the nice old lady in 15C. I knew she had a cat -- I'd hear it sometimes -- but had never seen it.

"Hi Helen, I'm Bill." I put the flashlight under my chin and pointed it up so she could see it was me.

"Stop that! You look like a horror show ghoul with that flashlight like that!"

I realized she was right, and decided to run with it.

"But I vant to bite your neck!"

She started laughing, more a nervous release than a real chuckle, and I joined in.

"Helen, are you OK in there? They told me downstairs that everyone had left."

"Well, no, we didn't leave, as you can see." I saw something moving at her feet, and then the flash of the eyes of her grey tabby rubbing against her ankles.

"Yeah, I can see that you didn't leave, but are you OK? They tell me that there's been no heat for days, and no electric."

"Well..."

"Well what?"

"Well, we haven't been eating very well, and we're afraid to drink the water."

"Oh my gosh, Helen, that's terrible."

She looked at me. "And how are you getting by?"

I guess I had been too focused on my tasks, and wasn't thinking -- I probably had enough food and water to take care of two people and a scrawny cat for a month.

"Helen, I'm fine -- but can I help you out? Let me put my stuff away, take a shower, and how about if I make us dinner?"

I saw a smile on her face -- one of relief, from what I could tell. "That would be nice. Do you think the water is safe?"

"Well, certainly for a shower. You want to come over around 8?"

"I suppose...but could I ask you a favor? Could you cook in my apartment? I hate to leave him alone."

Clearly she was attached to her cat -- I know a lot of folks get attached to their pets. It didn't really make a difference to me where I cooked - these apartments were all the same. I could easily make us dinner at her place.

"Sure Helen, I can do that. Expect me around 7, and shall I bring a bottle of wine?"

She chuckled softly. "Oh no."

"OK, no problem, just wanted to ask. See you at 7."

I opened the door to my apartment, and realized, all at once, that it wasn't much different than being in Montana -- urban camping. A cold shower by flashlight. Candles and a few canned goods. I checked the freezer -- everything was still in good shape, bless General Electric and his minions. I'd have to be creative to make anything presentable, though.

I had some frozen vegetables -- Helen could probably use the vitamins. I had some frozen ravioli, some butter that hadn't spoiled, and a dozen frozen sausages. I could pan fry the sausages, boil the raviolis, make a nice brown butter sauce with some sage, and make a light honey drizzle to glaze the carrots.

Not exactly gourmet -- but it would do. I gathered up my things -- cutting board, knife, small whisk -- and then remembered that old Helen didn't drink. I poured myself two fat fingers of scotch, tossed them back, wiped off my mouth, shook my head for a moment, and headed over to 15C. I remember thinking "Here goes nothing."

Her apartment looked just like mine, in reverse -- she was across the hall. Galley kitchen, living room/dining room combo, a couple of closets, bathroom, bedroom. She had lit a bunch of candles, and with the flashlight I brought it was enough to see my small counter space. I got to work, started pouring some water from a jug into a pot for the ravioli, fired up the gas stove, and started chopping onions and garlic to garnish the sausages. A little balsamic vinegar goes a long way.

Helen didn't say too much. She offered to help, but in that kind of way that was more polite than a real offer. "Can I do something?"

The kitchen was small, there wasn't much light, and with the knives and the candles, it didn't seem like a good idea for two people to be working on top of each other, so she stood off to the side and watched while I cooked while we made idle chit-chat.

"Your hair looks wet, and you smell good" she said.

"I took a shower and cleaned up after the long trip. I didn't want to offend the cat!"

She smiled. I think he would have liked it better if you hadn't cleaned up -- he likes to sniff people. Do you think the water's safe?"

I smiled. "Well, I kept my mouth closed...yes, I think it is safe. Freezing cold, but safe."

"God, I'd love to get clean. It has been five days" she said.

"Go ahead." I waved the knife at the stove. "Things are moving a bit more slowly than usual...I need about forty-five minutes...how much time do you need?"

I saw her wrinkle her forehead for a moment. "Well, since I won't be able to see much, makeup's not an option...and the water will be cold...half an hour would be plenty of time."

"Go for it Helen. I'll be fine. And when you come out we'll have a nice hot dinner."

It was then that I saw an even broader smile on her face -- the first real smile since we'd encountered each other in the hallway.

She disappeared into the bedroom, then went into the bathroom and turned on the water. I thought I heard her say something through the half closed door -- like "can you keep company?"

It was a little weird -- I didn't want to spook her again- so I chopped a bit louder, so she'd know I was in the kitchen. "Sorry Helen, can't hear you?"

She stuck her head out from behind the door. "I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to Roger. I want him to keep you company."

Damn funny name for a cat, I thought, but it wasn't my cat.

Then I heard a bump, and a couple of creaks, and out of the bedroom...wheeled her husband. In a wheelchair. "Hi, I'm Roger, so nice of you to cook for us."

Maybe it was the scotch; maybe the long trip, but I just stared at him, open mouthed, until he spoke to me. "You alright? Never seen a guy in a wheelchair before?"

And that's the thing about New York. You live next door to someone for a decade, and out of respect for their personal space don't know if they are married or single, if they have hobbies or friends, if they are vegans or carnivores, if they drink, or are abstemious.

Suddenly it all clicked, like a key sliding into a lock.

They hadn't evacuated with the others due to his wheelchair. Getting him down fifteen flights of stairs, in the dark, would have been arduous to say the least.

"I'm sorry -- I didn't know anyone was here. I mean, besides the cat. I thought you were a cat." It came out wrong, and stupid.

He laughed. "Listen, I've been called a pussy once or twice, but never a cat. No cat, it's just me, Roger -- Helen's husband. The cat is Felix. Not very original, but easy." He stuck out his hand, and we shook.

"Bill, 15A, nice to meet you."

"Bill, you look like you could use a drink. What'll it be?"

Another surprise.

"I didn't think you, Helen, you guys drank."

"Why that's ridiculous. I'm in a wheelchair, man, of COURSE I drink! You would too. What would make you think that?"

"Well, when I asked Helen about bringing over a bottle of wine she said not to."

"Look, we may be fools for getting stuck here, but we aren't idiots! Of course we have wine -- look in those three cabinets" and he pointed.

I open the cabinets, and sure enough, they were stocked. Now that I was getting to know them, I was getting to like Helen and Roger -- and the wine would make it even easier.

I pulled the cork on a nice Syrah as dinner simmered and Helen finished her shower. We could hear her cursing at the cold water, and Roger and I clinked glasses, both of us amused by her predicament.

It was time to serve dinner. Roger wheeled into the bedroom to put on a clean shirt -- "we always dress for dinner" he said -- and I noticed he had a little cup holder on his wheelchair for his wine. These two were characters! I finished up the carrot glaze, browned the butter, sliced the sausage, all those fussy last minute things before putting plates together, and we all converged at their table.

I felt underdressed in just a pair of jeans and a button down shirt. Roger had put on a crisp, freshly ironed white dress shirt with French cuffs. Helen had put on a red dress with a dipping neckline, and pulled her grey hair back, the candlelight revealing her soft, round face. Maybe these two weren't as old as I had made them to be -- I couldn't tell, but surely another bottle of wine would help me think better, and I uncorked the second.

They tore into dinner as if they were starved -- which, in hindsight, I think they were. It wasn't until I dished out seconds, halfway into the second bottle of wine, that they came up for air and we started to relax and talk. As we chatted I cleared the dishes, stacking them to clean later, and uncorked another bottle of wine as we settled back at the table to relax in the afterglow of a big meal.

The evening was turning out much nicer that I had expected -- in fact, I didn't want it to end. I had told them about myself, and how I had come to be their neighbor. I urged them to tell me more by asking that one question that couples relish -- if they are in love -- or hate, if they are not. "How did you two meet?"

And so Roger and Helen told me their story, together, like they were reading well-rehearsed lines from a script, but with feeling, and passion -- it was clear they were still very much in love.

They had met through work, like so many couples do. Ironically, before his accident Roger had been a chiropractor, and Helen had been a physical therapist working part time in his office, helping his more challenged patients with stretching, muscle strengthening, and other exercises.

Roger hadn't really noticed her at first -- but Helen was good at what she did, and when he noticed her appointments filling up he started paying her more attention. Together they had developed a good practice -- until, ten years ago, when Roger had a skiing accident that left him in the wheelchair. They had tried to keep their practice open, but from a sitting position he couldn't get the leverage he needed to work on his patients, and so they sold the practice, downsized, and moved into their apartment.

"I have to admit, I've never understood how chiropractic...what do you call it...chiropractic adjustments work" I told him. "Physical therapy, I think I get. Stretching, muscles, conditioning. But back cracking? What's up with that?"