Jeremy and I were living in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I was
doing freelance photography during the week and working at a beautiful
bookstore on the weekends. I made lots of new friends at the bookstore. Jeremy
and I also made friends with the friends of the people I met at the bookstore.
One evening, a friend of a friend of mine from the bookstore
had a party in her Park Slope apartment. I remember the apartment. People in
NYC always remember details about one another's apartments.
One of the most striking things about this apartment was the
large piano in the living room.
It started out as a regular party. There were cocktails.
There was conversation. There was recitation of poetry. One of my friends from
the bookstore was a poet. That is what she did when she wasn't working at the
bookstore. She was reciting one of the poems she'd written that week from
memory.
We had all had a number of cocktails. That is when one of my
friends suggested that everyone gather around the piano. Fantastic idea. Why have a piano if was just going to sit there
gathering dust?
There were these books I was obsessed with a child. They are
the All-of-a-Kind Family series. I will tell you that people gathering around the
piano to sing together is very All of a
Kind Family.
The part of it that was not so All of a Kind Family was that this sing-along commenced past
midnight. This was not something at the forefront of our minds. Nor was working
at the bookstore early the next morning. There was a remedy for that one. I had
recently turned all of my colleagues on to Snapple Iced Tea. Someone would make
a Snapple run to the deli next door when we all started to fade.
The friend giving the party sat down at the piano. We all
gathered around. There was sheet music on the piano. All of the sheet music
seemed to be songs that were popular in the 1970s. I knew all the lyrics
already. I have no musical talent except for an uncanny ability to learn lyrics
quickly and then remember those lyrics for the rest of my life.
We sang a few songs. What I lack in a melodious singing
voice I made up for in volume and enthusiasm. Some of the people there could
harmonize. This is good because having them sing with me made me feel like a
good singer. That, and the cocktails.
If you are picturing an extremely nerdy scene you would be
right. I'll say this for myself. I
already know. For a segment of my life, I believe I was cool. That part of
my life lasted for twelve consecutive years.
Before then, I was not cool. Afterwards, I was not cool. It was like I
was temporarily able to shake off my nerdy features for a bit. Then they came
back for me. Once that happened, I put up no resistance.
The evening I am describing is after I became nerdy again.
After much revelry, came my favorite song of the evening. Piano Man
by Billy Joel. If you were still thinking that maybe I had some residual shred
of coolness left, I am about to put the last nail in that coffin.
I’m admitting publicly that I love the entire Billy Joel
songbook. I don’t love Uptown Girl or New York State of Mind as much as Piano
Man and Just The Way You Are. Uptown Girl and New York State of Mind are my
guilty pleasures. The earlier material is my pleasure pleasures.
It has been suggested by someone very close to me – Jeremy
Shatan – that perhaps all of Billy Joel’s material should be considered a
guilty pleasure – the entire body of work. I have chosen not to take this
suggestion. Jeremy and I sometimes disagree yet he does continue love me just
the way I am.
It was without a hint of irony that I joined my friends in a
heartfelt, rather emotionally charged rendition of Piano Man.
Then came the knock on the door.
There was a uniformed police officer standing there. Someone
had called in a noise complaint.
As I look back over this time, I realize that I was in the
wrong. We shouldn't have been engaging in piano playing and singing at such a
late hour. There is such a thing, in NYC apartment parlance, as quiet hours.
This was beyond anyone's definition of that.
Also, piano playing plus 15 people singing would be a major
irritant even during the day, even if you happen to like the Billy Joel
songbook, even if you have a sense of humor, even if you drink cocktails
yourself.
Knowing that I was in the wrong this one time doesn't keep
me up at night.
I love NYC. I love it because of the rich culture, the
excitement, the fun. I love that my music-loving husband can go listen to bands
that he loves and that we can go to museums. I love that the city never sleeps
even as I do. I love the energy. I love that I can take the subway and I am in
a completely different neighborhood. In many cases, it's almost like going to
another country
But these are not the only things I love. I love the
proximity of other people. Even when I don't talk to someone, I like seeing
them. Jeremy and I thought about moving to the burbs. A lot of our neighbors
were doing it. One of the reasons we didn't do it was the isolation I thought
I'd feel.
Everyone who lives in NYC has their own reasons. For some
people, it's similar. For others it's not. Some people live here in spite of
all the things I mentioned not because of them. Others are doing so by default.
They're living here in a state of inertia.
But it's always a choice.
I live in peaceful proximity to most of my neighbors. Some
of the most exemplary individuals I've ever met are my neighbors. A lot of them
would give you the shirt off their back.
My days of geeky and noisy partying have passed. The parties
we have now are birthday parties. They are in the middle of the afternoon.
Quiet hours find us either asleep or getting ready for school.
The noise our treadmill makes, the noise our active son
makes and the noise of our being alive is upsetting to some people. These
people want a sanctuary in a thriving metropolis. These people have a firm
expectation of quiet. Some are sensitive souls. Almost all of them have advice
about being a parent. We receive this advice in the form of anonymous notes. We
receive unexpected knocks on the door from people who have never bothered to
say hello or introduce themselves before issuing a complaint.
I could write an entire post about ways to work these things
out and ways not to work these things out. I'm saving that for another time.
But here is what I will say today. By leaving me a note or
coming to my apartment unannounced you are breaking a social contract. You have
an expectation of quiet. But you are not quiet.
I hear you.
I hear the cell phone conversation you had in my courtyard
last night. I wasn't trying to listen. It's the acoustics. It comes straight
into my apartment at a higher volume than seems logical. Anyone wanting a
private discourse in my courtyard should think twice.
You have a delightful and strapping son. But when he was a
baby, his cries were so high pitched and pitiful I was in a constant state of
gratitude that none of my children had colic. You were having a tough time. I
get that.
I hear you running the vacuum when I am ready to go to
sleep. When Whitney Houston died, you held a musical vigil. I waited for it to
pass. It did.
The sharp click of high heels. The renovation you did before
moving in. The sound of your hammer as you decorate. The sound of late summer
evenings spilling over as you come home, your children's laughter mingling with
your conversation. Your TV. I can almost hear the show you're watching but not
quite. It has a laugh track.
I am surrounded by noise. Even as the electric company
jackhammers, I hear you. The noise is a two way street.
I wonder if I should be tit for tat. But my heart isn't in
it. I'm not a martyr, either. I never have been.
The noise I hear is the sound of NYC. It's the sound of
people living. It's the sound of not being alone. It's the sound of living in a
community. The truth is that most of it is music to my ears.
Make no mistake. I hear you. It is a choice not to complain.
I chose to live here. I chose to live here surrounded by noise.
Granted, none of it is three in the morning, alcohol-fueled,
toxic noise. I'm not making that noise either.
There is an alternative to my choice. There is the verdant
countryside. A little house on a couple of acres. Tall trees and bushes between
you and the neighbors. The sound of birds and wind. A reality instead of a
wish. It’s not for me. But it may be for you.
