A new sign up next to Crazy Frank’s. At first I thought (wished?) someone had taken the gate and used it for firewood and that was what he was referring to, but it was still there. Soooo, not entirely sure what “it” is, but I can tell ya I don’t wanna!
It? Does he mean the Nerf Ball hoop he attached over the stairwell? Or the plastic pegasus on a broken air conditioner? So many options!
Questions? Yeah, me too.
I almost feel this doesn’t even need text to go along, but I do need to point out that when I first saw this, the wooden gate was actually over his door. I don’t know if one of my other neighbor’s did that (if so, God bless em), but it was pretty awe-inspiring. I would have taken a picture right there and then if I hadn’t been accosted by a crazy British hippy with a hand cart full of cases and cases of Ensure.
And another just in case you didn't believe me the first time.
You didn't think it could get worse than this? Yeah, neither did I.
Before what, you ask. Well, let’s just say before my trips to San Francisco and DC (hence the lag between posts. Sorry, but duty aka paycheck calls), CF had already decided to decorate the outside of his pad.
First: this is illegal in the Co-op rules and regulations. No decorations, paint, JUNK, outside your door.
Second: Apparantly, these rules don’t apply to CF. Please see the Nerf basketball hoop and trellis outside his door, for example.
Third: It gets worse. Much worse.
Is Frank there?
In fact, it wasn’t even an encounter with Crazy Frank – CF, shall we – but one of his comrades in arms. But it was fucked up enough to give me the heebie jeebies and consider another dead bolt for my door.
Saturday night, getting my *saucy* outfit together (Toots loved it) and I hear the Intercom buzz. I’m not expecting anyone.
“Hello?”
“Hi – is Frank there?”
“Sorry, you have the wrong apartment.”
“Oh.”
I go back to making myself look good (which let’s face it, wasn’t too hard – heh) and the Intercom buzzes again. I think, “No way.”
“Hello?”
“Hi – is Frank there?”
“You just buzzed up, didn’t you? And I told you, no, you have the wrong apartment.”
“Oh.”
Now I’m getting a little annoyed. Sure enough, before I can even make the [short] trek back to the bedroom, BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
“HELLO.”
“Hi – is Frank there?”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, but Frank isn’t here. Not only do you have the wrong apartment, but I’m not entirely sure you don’t have the wrong building. Do not buzz here again.”
“Oh.”
I immediately stalk to the kitchen. Pull out the stop on a bottle of red wine and glug. Infuriating! I wait for the next buzz, ready to march down there with my now empty wine bottle and smack this fella upside the puss, but 5 minutes go by and no buzz. I figure, I told him.
The doorbell TO MY APARTMENT rings.
I think, again, “No way”.
Sure enough, I hear through the door that same, intoxicated voice: “Hi – is Frank there?”
I throw open the door – which on reflection, probably wasn’t the smartest move, but then again, I was armed with a wine bottle and my female emotions. You do the math on who would win in that tussle – and there wobbles back and forth a middle-aged man who is so sauced I can literally detect what type of gin he has been imbibing from what I can only imagine is the past few days – straight.
He repeats: “Hi – is Frank there?”
“Does it look like Frank is here?”
He peers in through the door.
“I don’t see him.” [Hiccup]
“Well then, I told you the THREE times you buzzed my apartment that he doesn’t live here. I also know that Frank has never lived here (Sidenote: the girl who lived here prior to me was named Tatiana, also, a lesbian). I don’t know how you got in, but I do know you’re going to sure as hell need to get out.”
“Frank buzzed me in.”
Hmm. Now you, Dear Reader, may be just as puzzled as me at this point. Until, light bulb over head, sauced middle-aged man snaps his fingers and proclaims, almost clearly: “I think Frank lives on the 4th floor.”
Off he bounced down the hallway, down the stairs and what I can only presume, into Frank’s arms as there was much mutual exclaimations over his arrival. They then celebrated with some Opera. At 13 decibels. I celebrated with another bottle of wine. And a shot of Jack.
Toots in her younger years: the face that sunk a 1,000 ships
Here are some things Toots has said to me in passing. Again, I’m not making this up. There’s no way I could make this up.
1) As I’m walking by Toots in the hallway at 10:30pm on a Saturday night: “You look saucy. Are you gonna cause some trouble tonight?” [Said to me, by Toots. Not the other way around, I promise you.]
2) “Is that what the kids are wearing these days?” [I was wearing JEANS.]
3) “Who are you?” [Said this morning]
4) “I don’t know where that crazy fucker is or what he’s doing but he better get over here and screw in my light bulb.” [Regarding our Super, Pedro to ME and what I can only hope is a reference to a lamp of some sort.]
5) “Campbell’s Tomato Soup is my favorite.” [Mine, too, Toots. Mine too.]
PS: Hold your horses, I promise to get a picture soon. One must be stealth about these types of things though.
Should read: The Incredible TOOTS
Now, despite our previous encounters together, believe it or not I’ve begun to take an odd shining to Toots. She lives on the 1st floor and likes to stand on the steps taking in the sun or other elements (I’m not quite sure she’s aware when it is raining, sleeting or snowing heavily.) She also doesn’t appear to own any other pants other than the purple sweatpants I first met her in. And those – between you and me – have seen better days. But all this aside, I always have time to chat with Toots. She is one batty bird and I like to imagine what she was like in her younger years. I think she would have been a pistol.
Our exchanges usually go something like this:
Toots: What’s your name again?
[I re-introduce myself, perhaps for 18th time.]
Toots: I like you.
Toots to Hispanic delivery boy cycling by: I like her!
And so our conversations go, pretty much everyday.
Well, one morning Toots told me she wasn’t feeling so well. I had baked a chocolate cake for a friend’s birthday, and conveniently, the leftovers were still in my kitchen. Pulsating at me with their Betty Crocker delicious-ness: “EAT ME.” Well, I had eaten it. Probably about 2 lbs of it. To myself. And since Toots wasn’t feeling well, I thought: “Well, really, what can make one feel possibly better than chocolate cake?” So I wrapped up the rest of it with a note and stuck it on her door.
I’m nice, right?
A few hours later as I descended the stairs for a spot of SoHo shopping with a friend (my Managing Editor, in fact), I found Toots in her purple pants perched on the steps in the front.
Toots: [Snort, honk, honk] Did you leave me some cake?
Me: Yes, I hope you liked it. I know you weren’t feeling well.
Toots: I’m diabetic. I threw it away but then I got it out of the garbage and ate it.
Me and SJ: [Blank stares]
Toots: I shouldn’t have eaten it because it could kill me. You could have killed me.
Me: Oh my gosh! I had no idea – I’m so sorry and you’re right, you shouldn’t have eaten it!
SJ: [Mouth open, staring]
Toots: You could have killed me. What’s your name again? [Spits]
Me: Well, OK. Um, I better go.
After SJ and I get a safe distance down the street (aka out of spitting distance)
SJ: Who the hell was that?
Me: That was that old lady I was telling you about.
[Pause]
SJ: Sweet Jesus.
Me: Yeah, no shit.
Just an average day in my building.
So, after we got all that background mumbo jumbo outta the way, how I got to this Insane Asylum, etc we can now get to the FUN part! Who are these crazy kooks? I’d like to kick this profile series off with who else? The lady, the legend: Toots.
Read on, my friends, read on.
Perfect for crazy, mixed-up neighbors!
After I comforted myself with 3 dirty martinis (Seriously. And let me tell you, 3 wasn’t anywhere enough), I toddled off home with much to think about.
Now many of you have already questioned, “Why would you want to live there after that?”
To that, I answer, clearly you’ve never bought real estate in New York. Heck, you probably don’t even live in New York. Because if you did, you’d realize just how much you’d go through, just how much you’d pay, just how many tears you’d cry to have your own little slice of this City. Yes, it’s 500 s/f – each one of those costing $1,000, each. Yes, you will be in debt for 30 years. Yes, you are surrounded by kooks. But this is Manhattan, after all, and that comes with territory. (Later, years from now, you may question all of this but that is neither here or there. All you know is you’re going to have one killer bedtime story to tell the grand kids).
At this point, you just hope that the Board has voted, “Yes” and that your Theory dress pants didn’t ruin your chances. You’re at work when you get a call from the building manager.
“Congratulations, welcome to the building.”
“Wow. Really?!”
“You sound surprised?” he laughs.
“Well, yeah, actually. I mean, Toots asked me if I posted ads on Craigslist. And that British lady didn’t seem to believe me that my company existed. She also accused me of making up my profession. I swear to God Public Relations is real. I didn’t make it up. Also, that one guy, the one who kept knocking his head on the pipes, he was making faces at me. So you, know, I kinda wasn’t sure.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well they liked it that you baked cookies. So you’re in.”
So, I’m in.
Those ominous words may very well live to haunt me later, when I, too, have a pair of my own purple sweat pants and am trolling online for men, power drills, what have you, but right then, they were music to my ears.
So, I’m in. And so, it begins.
Ray likes to look sharp, too.
After an hour of pleasantries about my income, travel schedule, sex life, how often do I like to cook and when I have my girlfriends over, are neighbors invited, too (asked by pervy winking man), I was released from the dungeon and sent on my way. Told, by the building manager, I would be contacted shortly. After the vote.
I walked through the alley with the throttled pigeon, and out the building, down the steps and on to the street. I needed to call my parents. Stat. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed home. My Dad answered.
“Daddy, it’s me. I just finished with the interview.”
“Well, how did it go?” he questioned gruffly.
“Daddy, they asked me if I posted ads on Craigslist.”
[Silence]
[Pause]
“What?”
“The old lady asked me if I posted ads on Craigslist and brought crack addicts home.”
“I’m going to get your Mother.”
