This was the filthiest apartment I had ever worked in. It isn’t uncommon for young New Yorkers to never clean. I’m not exaggerating – many young adults in New York simply don’t clean. They don’t sweep, they don’t scrub, and honestly, at this point, I’d bet money that a good bit of them don’t wipe. I wish I was joking, but I’m a mover and, while this is all anecdotes with no data, most folks that hire me to move their stuff have not touched a broom, mop, or a roll of paper towels since they signed the lease. Atrocious as this sounds, most of these type New Yorkers don’t live in any one place too long. Few of these non-cleaners are even on the lease, most are subleasing, which lends a little more sense to their lack of hygiene as their plan from the get go was to unpack, scurry around, then pack up and leave. What made this particular moving gig different was that these folks were non-cleaners but they had lived there for six years.
The dust was so thick you couldn’t wipe it off with a wet rag. Not only did this couple live in abject filth, they didn’t know how to pack. Half their belongings were in tiny little day bags, something you might take to a picnic, and the contents of which couldn’t have filled more than 1/10 of a reasonably sized box but instead we had to take three trips because the halls were so narrow there was no way to carry ten bags at once. The boxes they did have were untaped! There will likely be a lot of exaggeration in this story going forward, but this little bit is 100% truth: they hadn’t taped the bottoms of the boxes. I went to pick one up and they rushed over yelping to wait – They had only taped the tops. And hardly even that. All the ends of tape were curling up the sides of the box as if these strips had been reused so many times that they had lost all adhesive – yet they had two rolls of unused tape on the kitchen counter mocking me.
At least it wasn’t a six floor walk up – it was a four. And the Uhaul had to wait around the corner because the parking police felt the need to wield their authority. I’m just glad it wasn’t more than 85 outside, even if it still felt like it. Anyway, all this is to say, when you’re dripping from head to toe in sweat and toting dust covered boxes, bins, and bags down four flights and around the block, you become one with the filth. I became one with the filth. And though I had told myself I needed to lay off the train beers, that gig was a gig that justified cheating on my budget.
The gig was on the Upper Eastside. I live on the Upper Westside. In fact, I live so far up the Westside that it is no longer called the Westside. Thus, these would not be train beers, but rather bus beers as I had to cross Manhattan to get back to the right side of town where I belong. I know what you’re thinking: This is a pandemic, you can’t be drinking on public transportation. How then would you wear your mask? First off: I’m vaccinated, so give me some leeway. Second off: If you have a straw, then all you have to do is lift up the bottom of your mask and sip without ever once exhaling or anything. Now, I’m no doctor, but I think that is pretty risk reductive. That said, it is still a major faux pas. Before the Pandemic, it was just a minor faux pas, but now it is a little more frowned upon. Still, it’s New York City! Who’s going to call you out on anything unless they’re ready to fight?
Apparently this old white man was.
I get on the bus with a half empty Whiteclaw, headphones in, Youtube video on, I’m ready to coast across Manhattan, cut through Central Park, and hop off on Broadway without bothering anyone – but then I notice something. The old man next to me leans forward, poking his head between the seats in front of us, and says something to the young woman sitting there. She is on her phone and the Andy Griffith had been reading his newspaper. I thought he likely overheard something and said some cute old person thing. Nope. She immediately recoiled.
“Oh god,” I thought, “what did this creep just say?”
I instantly turn off my video and just managed to catch the last bit of his aggressive little tyrade.
“-can you not just text, are you illiterate? People are trying to read here!”
Now, I’m not sure how it was back in the Gilded Ages – I assume there were less cellphone calls back then – but people talk on the phone on the bus all the time. Not only that, it wasn’t like this lady was one of those shouters who screams into their phone as if they’re yelling into a cup on a string. I hadn’t even noticed she was on the phone until Eustace Bagge started pitching a fit. Plus, we’re sitting in the back – underneath a rumbling AC unit – and going down a main street through the middle of Manhattan – cars honking, sirens blaring – it was a wonder that whoever she was talking to could hear her in the first place or vice versa. Buses are not quiet. New York City is not quiet. If he could read his newspaper over the sounds of the setting, then there was no way in hell her quiet phone call was legitimately disturbing him. Even if he’d asked her politely to not talk on the phone, then I would’ve still thought it was a little much, but he hadn’t. Clint Eastwood came out the gate guns a blazing.
So I inserted myself, “Dude, leave her alone, you’re being a dick.”
This sets my man off, “She’s being rude, I can’t read!”
“Man, this is New York City,” I remind him, “You’ve got to move out to the country or something if you want peace and quiet.”
At this stage, the man has gone full Rudy Giuliani. I couldn’t even reproduce his monologue if I tried. There was something to do with everyone in my generation being illiterate (despite 90% of our communications taking place through keyboards) and how we’re all uneducated (which is true, but no more true with our generation than his) and then he stumbles upon the real zinger. His eyes widen – yet somehow, they retain their beadiness – and he blubbers his final gotchya with such passion he nearly spits through his mask:
“I bet you don’t even know what day the new mayor gets sworn in!”
Well, he got me. I didn’t. I may work the polls, but I’ve got no clue when the mayor gets sworn in. To be honest, I don’t care. Show of hands, do you think the new mayor will significantly change anything? If you raised your hand, then you didn’t live here during the last mayor. But that is just my political opinion and, more importantly, that isn’t the point. Whether or not she or I was illiterate, whether or not I knew when the mayor gets sworn in, whether or not it is rude to talk on the phone on the bus, this man was being a dick to her and that was my point.
I don’t know why he went after her, but I really don’t think it was because he hates people who talk on the phone on a public bus. She looked to be a person of color, was he racist? She was a woman, was he sexist? She was small and alone, was he just blowing off steam and lashing out at the first available unthreatening stranger? I’ll never know, but this is how the story ends:
The woman – still on the phone – gets up to get off for her stop. Waiting for the others to get off, she turns and absolutely roasts Old Man Withers. Just as I can’t reproduce exactly what he said as he sputtered on about millennials being idiots, I can’t even begin to recall the slings and arrows of outrage that crashed down upon his fragile frame as she exited the bus – but, before she left, she stopped the onslaught and took the time to turn to me and say, “Thank you for being such a gentleman.”
Now, in case you forgot, I was covered in dust and still dripping with sweat, I had an open tallboy in one hand, and had just spent the last five minutes calling an old white man a dick. I suppose the definition of gentleman can evolve through the ages.
As she stepped off, another gentleman stepped on. The bus immediately sagged in his direction. This man was a gargantuan chunk of muscle. He barely fit on the bus and I’m almost sure I heard the poor vehicle burnout a bit as we pulled off from the stop. This titan stomped over to the seat that our female caller had just abandoned and slammed down. The old man cringed and I really think his reaction might’ve had more to do with this new passengers skin color than his obvious athletic ability, but that’s just speculation. What isn’t speculation is the miraculous victory that the universe had just delivered.
No sooner did this fellow sit down, then did he pull out his phone. He had a call and he answered that call. And not only was he a shouter, he also didn’t have headphones and I’m quite certain his biceps were too large for him to attempt to hold his phone up to his ear. With no other option, my new hero put his phone on speaker mode and argued with his friend about cryptocurrency the entire way home.
I looked over at the old man in the corner, but he was gone. Hidden behind the safety of his newspaper, which I’m not sure he could read as I’m positive tears were now clouding his vision.