I was crankily shoveling snow on the day of the largest New York storm in recorded history. It took a few hours to get the stairs cleared, but it was good, honest labor and I felt pleased that, above all else, my heart wasn't bursting apart like a cheap pinata. Not long after I'd begun, an older gentleman exited his humble abode and began shoveling and for a few minutes I imagined we were two hearty men sharing a moment of fortitude, grit and bone-chilling cold. When he finished shoveling he began salting his stairs and I thought it would be a good idea to do the same. Only I didn't have salt, all I had was this older gentleman with whom I'd silently bonded.
"Ahem," I said. "Could I have a little salt?"
"Errr!" he said. "You don't have any?"
"No."
"Errr! Okay, when I'm done."
He then finished salting his staircase, put the salt away as I waited, walked to another staircase -- perhaps he owned both buildings? -- and shoveled that stairway. Then he pulled the salt out again and salted there. The whole time I leaned on my shovel, waiting. Sure, maybe in a perfect world it would have been better if I'd been prepared and had my own salt (though I'm a mere renter and have a lousy landlord who doesn't take care of things like stair shoveling or smoke detector repair), but we were neighbors and I wasn't asking for much. Or was I? Maybe I was just another goddamned punk, artsy type who'd invaded his neighborhood and damnit who needed to help these irresponsible succubae? Maybe I'd slip and break my neck, one less punk in the world, ha ha ha!
Finally, he came over, tossed half a handful of salt on one small section of the stairs. Then he took another handful and threw it at me.
"Errr! There, that's enough." Then he went inside.
I understood this man and I love him: he is Crankypants squared! He showed me that it's not okay to expect your neighbors in NYC to help you when you're in need! Be prepared or die! What if it had been a nuclear attack, he was thinking, and I'd been asking him for water? (And I'm sure his apartment is full to overbrimming with supplies in hopes of such an attack). Helping your neighbor would be tantamount to death. Why can't people just take care of themselves? Why can't we all just live on our on little islands? Why do we need other people at all? When will the little purple martians stop telling me to pull out my shotgun and go on a killing spree? Life is so hard!
Yes, he had a point. People today don't take responsibility for themselves, or for much of anything. And why should HE be the one who has to step up and set an example. Errr!
I wanted to thank CP2 so I called my friend Happy Stan and we tossed around a few ideas. We could wait for him to leave his house and then crack him over the head with a pumpkin tossed from the roof. Happy didn't like this -- he wanted me to invite him to dinner and "communicate" my feelings. No, I said. Happy Stan then suggested sending flowers. Errr! I kicked Happy Stan out and devised my own plan. I went to the 99 cent store near my apartment and bought my own supply of salt. I filled a small plastic cup and then left it in CP2's doorway with a note: "Thanks for helping out!" Then I laughed maniacally. It was the same laugh the old man would have laughed after tossing salt on my pants had he not lost the ability long ago to express any joy, even the happiness derived from the misery of others. I laughed because I knew this would twist CP2s's panty's into a bunch: there's nothing cranky people hate more than happy people and my note just screamed "happy." I should have known I was dealing with a master.
A week later I discovered him sitting on his stoop, smoking a cigarette. That's right, all the snow had melted in a week and the weather had warmed. If you choose to read anything into this change, it's because you're hopelessly naive: weather changes, not cranky old men. Thank goodness.
As I walked past on my way to work I felt a little smack on the back of my head, followed by a fizzy plunk. He'd flicked his cigarette off the back of my head. I'm something of a dualist and believe we all have multiple selves, some of whom do battle with others. And so when CP2 plunked my ear with his still burning cigarette, I felt a warm glow, knowing I was facing a manifestation of myself, only older, Polish and not nearly so bearded. I wanted to embrace him. I wanted to thank him for giving me a Yoda-like model for crankiness. And thinking this I knew I couldn't thank him -- doing so would destroy the bond we'd established. So instead I turned and said, "Nice shot."
"Errr!" he said.
It was truly love. I considered suggesting we join forces, but the look on his homuncular face told me otherwise: cranky people do NOT unite, by definition.
By the way: all of the above is true and if you don't believe me, just ask James Frey. He helped me with the writing.
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