I grew up in two different places with two sets of parents, two sets of friends and two sets of neighbors. In the 60's and 70's, everyone knew each other. The entire apartment building on Broome Street was filled with people that cared about each other. We celebrated birthdays and holidays with our doors open and people spilling out into the hallways from the ground floor to the fifth. If someone in the building sneezed, you'd hear a chorus of "Gesundheits" in the courtyard. We cooked for each other. We ran errands for each other.

In Sheepshead Bay, you could walk from the corner of East 19th Street and Avenue Z all the way to Avenue Y and identify the families living in almost every house. If you played touch football in the street, you knew which cars to avoid and which were owned by those who'd be happy to toss the ball around with you. Doors were left open. People came and went with a little knock to announce their arrival.

"Hi, I picked up the newspaper for you." 

"It's me. I made eggplant and brought you a plate."

I've lived in Astoria Queens for 32 years. Though my neighbors on either side of me weren't quite as familiar as those on Broome Street and Sheepshead Bay, they still said "Good Morning" or helped with the trash. One summer, we had a little BBQ in the backyard, and I found six folding chairs on my side of the fence. I had told my neighbor about the party and asked him to come over. He didn't, but he was kind enough to lend me the chairs in case I needed them. I didn't even ask. He has since retired and moved to Florida. Now that two family house is occupied by two different couples in their late 30's, possibly early 40's. One couple has a two year old daughter. The other couple just got married. He smokes a lot of weed and they have a dog. I've seen those four people almost everyday since they moved into that house three years ago.

They never say hello.

The weed smoking guy, if he is high, will come out laughing and nod his head occasionally. His translucent wife, Miss Icebox deYogamat, stares right at me as I smile and say "Good Morning," and then puts her head back down, saying nothing. She doesn't even try to pretend she is enthralled by the TikTok video on her phone and doesn't see me standing two feet to her left. She looks right at me with this dead stare and then looks away. The couple with the baby will force a hello, as if putting two fingers down their throats to puke up a bad clam. If I don't say hello first, they'll blow right by me.

I don't understand this entitlement, if that's even it. Is it generational? What the hell is it that makes a person wake up and not give a crap about the people around them? What is this inability to show some neighborly warmth? I am not going to invite myself in with a bottle of Wild Turkey and spend the evening spinning Todd Rundgren bootlegs. Just say hello, damnit!

You might need me one day.

I always go back to the Maya Angelou quote, which at this point has been used to death, but I guess that's because it's a good one.

"When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time."

When you're a kid, decisions are usually made for you. I made friends in first grade and they remained my friends through eighth grade. I was bullied in first grade, and those bullies never became my friends, not even 60 years later. It was a simpler time. As adults, with a lot more experience under our belts and time spent in the trenches of real life, we learn to manipulate. Put on a happy face for a few hours to impress someone and then spend the ride home trashing them with your loved ones. I can't do that because I apparently wear my heart on both sleeves. I'm usually miserable when I arrive at a place I don't want to be and let the situation play itself out. You know what you're getting.

I probably should have stopped trying to be a neighbor after the first three times I was ignored. But contrary to popular belief, I'm really a softie at heart. I love the idea of neighbors you can talk to and count on. I'd be the first to help you if I was able to. I have a few friends who know, if I only have $20 in my pocket, which has been the case lately, I am still buying you a beer with ten of it.

But I have also learned the hard way that even when you try to take the high road, it can backfire. Some people will only offer themselves up during the good times, when you really don't need them. (There's an old blues song about that.) People don't like confrontation. They'd just as soon let a situation rot to the point of no return, than to discuss a possible fix. It's easier to just keep walking, as if there is no elephant in the room, than it is to confront the problem. I know I have reached out to people, but they have never reciprocated. Maybe it's me. I could very well be the problem. Believe me, I know I am no bargain. I am well aware of my shortcomings. There's no law stating that you can't not like me. But then tell me to go fuck myself like a man instead of putting on the Mr. Rogers charade. 

Personally, I can discuss problems for hours. I want to work at the solution. Others, not so much. This is how friendships are lost and how neighbors become enemies.

I had a good friend who got a tattoo across his back that read, "TRUST NO ONE."
He told me he was getting it, and I tried talking him out of it. I failed. But now 30 years later, I am starting to believe he has the right idea.

Maybe we only need a few good people in our lives, you know, six or eight solid people you can rely on versus 50 who come and go like a Don Rickels sitcom.

Trust no one? That's a shit way to live. But maybe, keeping my head down and ignoring all the bullshit that's around me is really the healthiest way to live out the rest of my life. Not caring is the new high road.

Thanks for letting me ramble on.

I feel better now.