Neighbors

If you’re in New York City for any period of time, you’re bound to come across some interesting characters. If you live in the city, like I did for much of my childhood, some of these people will even be neighbors.

When I lived in the Amsterdam Houses neighborhood for much of the 1960s, Fermin and Carmen lived in the apartment next door with five children, the two youngest of which were theirs, the oldest three hers from a previous marriage. I’m not sure how Fermin made his livelihood, but I did see him walk on Amsterdam Avenue more than once with a parrot perched on his shoulder. He also boxed, which together with his goatee and penetrating eyes and sly smile, made him seem both a cool and tough Puerto Rican.

Carmen and my mother conspired on Christmas Eves to help keep my brother and me believing Santa Claus would arrive at out apartment only after we fell asleep. As we approached our apartment door after dinner at my Abuela’s, Carmen would open her door and say that Santa Claus had not yet arrived, so we needed to get to bed as soon as possible. She was right – there were no gifts under our Christmas tree that night, but they were there the next morning.

Carmen’s oldest three kids were called Papo, Moosie, and Choocho. At least, that’s what everyone called them. Papo’s real name was Cristobal, and he had the best baseball glove, a Maury Wills model, of anyone I knew. He was nice enough to let me use it sometimes.

On the opposite side of our apartment lived the Harts, an African-American family whose members I never recall smiling. I rarely talked to them; they seemed very serious all the time. Mr. Hart and one or both of his sons sometimes stared out the hallway window with what seemed like tan-colored stockings on their skulls. It seemed unusual to me, so I once out of curiosity asked them about it. They explained it helped relieve their headaches.

I can only recall speaking to Mrs. Hart once. She rang our doorbell one afternoon collecting donations for the March of Dimes. I quickly looked around our apartment for all the dimes I could find, and I gave her a few. She still didn’t smile, but I’m sure she said “thank you.”

I don’t know who lived directly upstairs from me, but I know they loved Latin music. Many times, when my brother and I laid down to sleep, we would hear the sounds of Tito Puente and other Latin artists blare from the record player above our bedroom. It sounded good, and we often fell asleep with those beats in our head.

In those days well before Facebook and inexpensive phone calls, our family lost touch with these neighbors shortly after moving to New Jersey. But, they’re not forgotten.