When you are a woman of a certain age

When you are a woman of a certain age -- in my case, that would 83 — and you live in an apartment in Manhattan, or a Manhattan-adjacent neighborhood, you want to be aware of the image you are projecting. All New Yorkers have heard horror stories about the seemingly competent and spry senior who lived down the hall and almost burnt down the building when she was trying to boil eggs at three in the morning. It’s never actually happened to them or anyone they know, but hey, they live in New York City — they spend their lives waiting for the next Manolo Blanik to drop. That’s why, if you are me, you are super careful to make sure you never give off a vibe which might suggest to your neighbors that one day soon you are going to get on your building’s onefunctioning elevator while naked from the waist up and start singing “The Times They Are A-Changing.” That actually happened when I was in my 20s, and while we later learned that Mrs. Marcus was celebrating her 87th birthday and she wasn’t quite sober, these days every time I can’t remember a name or find my keys, that visual comes back to haunt me.

My point is, young people who are sharing space with the elderly are not always easy about it, and I go out of my way to reassure them that living near me doesn’t mean their already complicated lives are going to become a nightmare of blaring TV soundtracks or cops breaking down doors to do wellness checks… Okay, maybe the sound on my TV is a little on the loud side. But I smile perkily when I meet the youngsters in the hallway — to me, anyone under 60 is a youngster—and in conversations, I do my best to model linear thinking even though I have been a verbal rambler all of my life. In these anxious times, I figure it’s the least I can do for the children who share space with me. At least it was, until yesterday morning when the couple who live next door caught me going up and down the hall, crouched over, shaking a box full of what had to sound like pebbles and making shrill cooing sounds. I didn’t see them until it was too late, and they disappeared into their apartment before I could explain what must have looked like a bizarre impression of Richard the Third. Not that an explanation would have helped with those two. I’m almost positive they are the ones who panic and report me to the front desk every time my smoke alarm goes off. And, really, what planet are they living on? Everyone is charring their vegetables now, it’s all over the internet, and where there’s charring there’s smoke. They need to get a life. But back to the cooing and box-shaking. I’m sure anyone who has ever been in a relationship with a cat has figured out what I was doing. I was trying to find Benjy. He’s the feline rescue I adopted four years ago, and I thought he’d escaped from my apartment. I was shaking a box of treats, because that is a time-honored way of getting a cat to come to you, and the shrill sounds were my attempt at meowing, which is also recommended if you want to lure a cat. It was all perfectly logical, if you knew the backstory.

Okay, now I should probably tell the backstory. Yesterday morning, I had a doctor’s appointment. This is something that happens at least once a week now. I don’t drive anymore, and I usually try to walk to these events. I do that so when one of the pushy 12-year-old doctors who now treat me asks if I’ve started that exercise program yet, I can put the kid in his or her or their place. But yesterday it was cold outside, so I hired a car. I bundled up and headed for my front door, planning to wait for my ride in the lobby. That was when Benjy began circling the living room, making the sound that is somewhere between a growl and a yowl which signals that he isn’t merely displeased, he's pissed off; in this instance, because I was leaving. I ignored him — we’d had the discussion concerning my right to a life of my own many times — and I left the apartment, closing the door behind me. Then I tried to lock it. The key went into the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. I tried it several times. I went back into the apartment. The door locked from the inside immediately. Easy. I went outside and tried it again. No way. And there was no way I was going to walk away without locking my door. I’m a New Yorker; I’d chew glass first. I called the building’s super for help and he called the handyman.

The handyman was on the house phone trying to talk me through the lock problemwhen Benjy upped the decibel level on his growl/yowl, and at the same moment, my mobile phone rang. It was the driver of my car announcing that he’d arrived, and it was clear that his English was a work in progress. I want to say right now that I have nothing but respect for anyone who comes to this country for a better life and takes on a city like New York and does a horrible job like driving in our traffic while trying to cope in English which is a beast to learn. It takes more courage than I’ve ever had. That said, there’s no denying that at times, the language thing can be difficult. The following dialogue ensued. 

Driver: (On mobile phone) Am Four One driver. Here at building. 

Benjy: Ayyyyah!  

Handyman: (On house phone) Put the key in the lock and turn it. Then check the side of the door and tell me what happens. 

Me: (To mobile phone) I can’t come down, I can’t lock my door. (To house phone) The thingie that goes in and out isn’t moving… 

Driver: Yes, am at door. You come down. .

Handyman: Is it stuck?

Me: (To house phone) I think so. (To mobile) I can’t because I can’t lock my front door. 

Driver: Yes, yes, yes, am at front door of building!!! You come.”

Handyman: Did you try jiggling it?  

Me: (To house phone) Yes! (To mobile phone) No! 

Benjy: Ayyyyyyyyyah!! 

We did this for the next five minutes until the handyman diagnosed my lock issue as a lack of oil, the driver called his dispatcher who cancelled my trip, the driver split, and the handyman came upstairs, oiled my door and left. I scheduled a new car to take me to my appointment and was told it would come in twenty minutes which I knew would be okay because the boy doctor I was seeing always ran late. All problems solved, I breathed a sigh of relief, re-bundled, headed once again for the exit – and realized that it was quiet in the apartment. Very quiet. I looked around. Benjy was nowhere in sight. Ithought maybe he’d gone to sulk under the bed, and since I had time to kill, I grabbed a box of treats and went into the bedroom. No matter how hard I try to be stern with my little angel I hate it when he’s mad at me, and I wanted to give him a peace offering. He loathes the expensive healthy food I put in his bowl but he is crazy for the cheap commercial treats I dole out sparingly because they are the feline equivalent of Taco Bell. So, yeah, I was going to bribe my cat. But first I had to get him out of his hiding place. That was going to be a challenge. Like most New York landlords, mine considered storage an unnecessary luxury, so like most tenants, I kept stuff under my bed. I had to work my way past a pasta machine, a juicer, seven years of tax returns, my backup stash of toilet tissue, and a bin full of toothpaste, soap and, for some reason I’ve forgotten, several jars of mustard, before I could see that Benjy wasn’t under there. I checked out the rest of the bedroom. Again, no Benjy. I wasn’t worried exactly, but I went back into the living room and started searching more seriously.

It wasn’t until the second driver phoned to announce that he’d arrived, that I remembered that the door to my apartment had been open for several minutes while I was trying to lock it -- and Benjy had serious skills as an escape artist. I was worried. No, let me be accurate, I was freaked out. The hallway outside my apartment had a breezeway at either end, and if Benjy was wandering around out there, he was in trouble. I canceled the car and the doc appointment, and raced into the hallway with my box of treats to do the Richard the Third impression – a Richard who was a coloratura soprano and worked with castanets – that my neighbors then witnessed. And took as confirmation of their worst fears about the old dear who lived next door. 

To wind up this story I should mention that late that afternoon when my home looked like it had been tossed for drugs and I’d made a stack of Lost Pet flyers to post throughout my apartment complex, Benjy showed up. He strolled out of the bedroom, made his way to his food bowl, sniffed the contents, gave me stink eye and swanned off to lie on the couch. I still don’t know where the hell he was for eight hours. And I did encounter my neighbors again. Eventually. Because you can’t hide forever; at some point you have to take your garbage to the incinerator room. I wish I could say I carried off the meeting with panache. I did smile perkily. And I made direct eye contact. But then I heard myself say somewhat defiantly, “I still have all my own teeth.” It was not a good moment for any of us.

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