It was a morning like any other. Loud crashes outside my window. Imagine my surprise when I went outside and saw a truck eight feet up in the air outside my building. It was the base of a crane that tipped over and crashed onto the low structure next to my apartment building. The police had already taped up the scene, and while I watched the area for a few minutes, I noticed they weren't letting people in and out of my building. So, I went into denial, and went to work. Contradictory, huh?
By 7 pm, denial wore off and I decided to call a few people in my building before going home. I called everyone I knew of the eight people I know. The other eight flats are either unoccupied or taken by very temporary tenants--to the tune of three or four months.
I finally reached Ms. S, who is 91 years old. She said the building had been evacuated. When I asked her why she was still in the building, she said, "I used my feminine wiles!"
So, I made alternate arrangements to make sure I had a roof over my head, and I went home hoping to retrieve my cats, the blessed Diana and the beloved Nero. A accompanied me home for moral support and an extra set of arms in case I had to carry some stuff out.
What a scene! Two ten-story cranes hovered over my building while the smaller one remained tipped over on the smaller building. I asked the Fire Dept. if I could go in and get the cats, but I let them convince me that the whole thing would be over in a few hours. I spoke to a cop who told me that Ms. S barricaded herself in her apartment, and they decided against breaking down the door. They could have just gotten the keys and gone in, but... what're ya gonna do?
The cop was very friendly. I couldn't help but wonder how friendly he might be in different circumstances, if I was at a protest at City Hall, or at Battery Park reading off names of the AIDS pandemic dead. This was the cop seeing me as the displaced resident. He could relate. I wasn't a queer or a protester in this instance.
Of course, no one from my building management was on hand. Even though I am the one who called them this morning to warn them their building (and my home) might be in danger. That larger crane was just feet away from my roof. Considering everything I own, and my feline companions were in there, I was remarkably calm.
So, A and I went out for a delicious Mexican dinner at Chihuahua (Second Avenue and 75th Street). Then we approached my block from the other direction. The trees in front of the doorman buildings are all lit up in white lights, like a starry arbor. But those cranes and emergency vehicles were no creche.
We then went for Haagen Dazs.
We finally got back in at 11 pm. One of the Fire Dept. guys recognized me as "the guy with the cats." Also, A came up to make sure everything was okay, that the cats were okay, etc. A is a very good pal.
I also had my family on standby. I had to figure out what might happen if the whole thing turned into a week-long odyssey. Just about everyone I know has cats. It's hard to place cats where cats already live. My aunt told my belle soeur, "Tell him to relax." It's hard to relax when you live in a building where illegal workers who don't know any English killed all the heat to the rear of the building, where the buzzers don't always work, where sewage from the toilets is leaking directly onto tarps above the fuseboxes, and asbestos has been removed illegally. Finding a gigantic crane hovering over your whole life because some crane operator without a license was delivering an air conditioning unit to a chi chi boutique that this neighborhood really doesn't need was not how I expected to spend the evening.
Rant over.
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