SEND US NEWS TIPS!
blog@nypress.com






NEW YORK STORIES

Don’t Steal My Sky!

By P. Chenoweth

One morning, I looked out my Brooklyn kitchen window and gasped. What was that building doing there? The hulking four-story skeleton had seemingly been built overnight. “Honey?” I cried to A., my girlfriend at the time. “Are my eyes playing tricks on me?”

“New condominiums,” she said grimly, eating her cereal. “Nothing we can do.” 

“How long have you known about this?” I asked. While I was attuned to the smallest of changes—a new freckle on A.’s nose, a new bud on my cactus—I was blind to anything big and obvious. Out my window, where there’d once been a grassy, weedy lot, there was now a concrete pit with metal stakes pointing up at odd angles. So far, the new construction was at the same height as the surrounding buildings, but if it grew any bigger, we’d lose our view of our neighbors’ flower gardens and scrappy trees. Even worse, we’d lose our view of the Manhattan skyline.

When I moved into my apartment six years ago, I was a 21-year-old intern at Ms. magazine, bristling with the hope, ambition and boundless energy that only an intern can possess. I was rich with sky. On clear nights, I could see a diamond necklace of lights sparkling, and my heart would soar: New York City!

When friends visited from Pennsylvania, I would point out my view of the Empire State Building, and we’d all sit on the fire escape and swoon. Finally, after almost two years, my girlfriend broke the truth: “Um, sweetie, that’s the Woolworth building.”  I’m glad I was ignorant about geography for so long. Believing that I had a view of the Empire State Building helped me survive some rough patches. When I was cleaning houses and starting to wonder what I was doing in New York, I’d stand on the fire escape and look at the “Empire State” until my spirits were renewed. 
I didn’t think I could survive the loss of my sky. It had already been a very, very bad year for us. A.’s young niece had drowned in an over-crowded city pool, and I’d lost my father to bone cancer. We were already a bunch of highly depressed dykes.

For a year, the construction moved at glacial pace, and I felt a sense of dread every time I went into my kitchen, watching the metal, concrete and stucco coalesce into expensive ugliness. Before the walls came up, each apartment was a box of vertical metal bars, like a prison cell. My private moments of savoring the city lights were gone. Now I’d be in the company of lots of rich people with bad taste.   

One day, I noticed that a construction worker had left a white lawn chair inside one of the raw apartments, as if to give it a homey touch. I still hadn’t seen the workmen in the flesh; it felt as if the building had risen up of its own volition. Then one day, I went into my kitchen first thing in the morning to make coffee, wearing nothing but a towel. As I poured my first cup, I glanced out the window—five men in orange construction hats stood on a platform, just feet away from where I stood, half-naked. But they weren’t gawking or even looking in my direction. They acted as if my shades were drawn. They were just getting some air, taking a coffee break. These were the most polite construction workers I’d ever encountered.

By this time, it was summer, and A. and I had split up. I missed having my morning coffee with someone, so it was really nice to have the construction guys right outside. Every morning when I got my coffee—fully clothed—I’d wave to them, and they’d wave back. Then I’d sit with the window open and eavesdrop on their personal conversations and cell phone calls. One day, I heard one of the guys outside say, “My coffee tastes like shit.” I contemplated tossing him a box of Domino sugar cubes. But in the end, I decided against it, since I have really bad aim.

We’ve had coffee together for two years now, the construction guys and me, and the building’s nowhere near being finished. It’s five stories tall—and, while it obstructs some of my skyline, there’s still a good bit left. This is very fitting, I think. My life doesn’t sparkle like it did in my early twenties, but the sparkle isn’t all gone either. Twenty-seven looks enough like 21 when you squint your eyes.

  Do you have a New York story?  

  E-mail  nystories@nypress.com


del.icio.us digg NewsVine