Irene/Good night.

I was about to vent about a soundbyte that pricked up my ears last week: Mayor Bloomberg at a podium responding to the theory that the economic worries have spiked our NYC crime rate recently: People who commit crimes don’t read the Wall Street Journal.

But this was before Hurricane Irene. I’m not going to dis the category-5 media hailstorm that ate up 90% of prime time television before a literally captive audience, nor criticize the challenged reporters who were compelled to announce play by plays on-camera during a virtual no-hitter endless-inning game, thanks to the Weather Gods....

I suppose I could have made it a romantic weekend, but fearing my own emotional cabin fever, I isolated in my apartment, spoke little, binged on TV, cleaned up and organized, wasted endless hours I normally crave.... refused an invite to a wild neighborhood storm party-- read little, emailed tons, slept odd hours—kind of like a snow day, but without kids. It didn’t help that Friday I’d had an ugly gig on Houston STreet--- not a disaster, but kind of a category-1 mediocre night which I’d fled in a dark minute after pulling out my cord. Third luke-warm underpaying gig in a week of tepid disasters, of sending off my cool son to his final college year on a Port Authority Bus, like a loser...at the exact moment of an earthquake, no less. I deserved a little maternal prison time.

With the blinds drawn, I decided to use the TV as my only window to the outside. No fear, candles and transistor radio on the table... I actually listened to music. Odd things--- Keith Jarrett, friends’ cds I’d stockpiled... The Church, Traffic, then I had a brief aural affair with The National... it evokes that perfect time of my midlife when I was still passionate, when the soundtrack of my life had reverb—atmosphere, a ruby-black cloud like Tindersticks, like Nick Cave...a kind of punishing regret and nostalgia.

Washing floors on my knees, erasing the summer marks of Nikes and topsiders, I thought of the real casualties of the storm-- -the ones that might not be found for a while—the alcoholics who had to drink alone--- the guy with the brutal amputations who scowls in the Citicorp underground, the men that sleep in the church doorways on 96th and Broadway, the Mexican busboys with two jobs just to put food on their table who will be docked 4 shifts—maybe 5.

I missed my Mom calling me to check on us.... she’s too confused to organize concern for others... and the rest of them figure one less slice of the family pie would be fine. My son facebooked me from a safe distance away that the library lions were floating down Fifth Ave and I quipped that the origin of the storm was definitely his recent ex-girlfriend who’s been calling my house drunk at 4 AM and hanging up.

I’ve yet to venture outside. I’ve had these visions of some kind of lush jungle foliage lining my street instead of the saturated garbage. It’s like the eye of Irene got stuck in my head and I’m not sure what’s coming. The city seemed to unravel the storm, like it does so many people. You think you’re going to just smash right through some kind of finish-line tape...you’re going to make the award shows and the goddam history books and then you get here and there are so many paths, so many roadblocks and buildings--- bridges and tunnels and dangerous corners.. bloated rats on the tracks and sewage in the rivers, old food on your subway seat at night--- gorgeous women with grit under their nails, tall willowy men with soft words and guitars-- old blood on their hands, cigarettes that kill-- ghosts on your windowsill, angels with dirty knees, rain pissing down for endless hours on hurricane dreams.

Dress Code

I think I’ve been mourning Heath Ledger. Not that I knew him or anything. I did see him in a bar one night, looking unshaved and a little disoriented, although I may be attaching that judgment retroactively, which is unfair. Celebrities need a disguise sometimes, and there’s no camouflage as effective as 'unkempt'. When you’re badly dressed you’re invisible.

One Christmas in the old days of New York I had to pick up a gift for someone on Madison Avenue at some pretentious boutique where I’d normally be watched by security as a potential thief or stalker. So this bearded skuzzy guy attaches himself to me, and seems literally to be shadowing my every move like a monkey. I get a little nervous, knowing I’ve got my friend’s wad of cash stuffed into my back pocket, and I give the salesman that look. ‘Mr. Jagger’, the salesman pronounces in this sycophantic tone…’I’m so sorry…’ and it seems Mick himself is wearing a beard and army coat and trying to avoid some paparazzi hound by concealing himself behind the unphotogenic me. He apologized and I was so astonished I accidentally came away with some form of grace. I bought the whatever-it-was and got the bonus celebrity-brush anecdote we New Yorkers act as though we could care less about.

What does annoy me are these little perfectly-coiffed salesgirls at Club Monaco and Banana Republic who are making undoubtedly less than the Starbucks baristas but who manage to convey complete disgust for people of my age who obviously have not cultivated an addiction to their merchandise.

So I ask myself…what is my building’s aversion to our homeless woman-visitor who is better dressed than either Mick Jagger or Heath Ledger on the two occasions I shared a moment? Does she remind them of their neglected mother or aunt? Is she a personification of guilt, a reminder of all the less fortunate people they overlook in their mad fashion-furious quest for ever-more décor, more clothing, better cars, invitations? Have they been watching the ‘Real’ Housewives of New York? These women whose grammar and diction betrays a level of class that is as slim as the latest ipod model? Do they realize how whisper-close they can be to either society? That their address, just nano-seconds ago in universe-time, was maybe a slum or a castle for the local rats who really have little prejudice and are just as happy in their Park Avenue digs as they are in the sewer.

I came in Saturday night, noticed yet again the empty stool placed for our latest version of ‘doorman’ who is nowhere to be found in the wee hours despite a salary which would easily house and care for this poor woman. After a brief exploration, I frightened said- employee in the laundry room, absorbed in a film on his portable dvd player. I apologized and left. I don’t want to cause his family to suffer by ratting him out. Besides, he’s at least keeping the rats out of the laundry room during these hours, although there’s very little damage they are inclined to do in there. Maybe romp a little. Snack on the dead waterbugs stuck on the gluetraps. Recycle.

If the newly-hyphenated residents of my building are so concerned with security, why don’t they employ the homeless woman to stand there and keep out undesireables? She could use the gig and she is much more conscientious than the security employees, appreciates the job and, in a way…belongs? She's better-mannered than most of them, doesn't judge me by my clothing. She's probably smarter and actually reads the Wall Street Journals stacked in the vestibule at 5 AM. Besides, they could use the money saved for an even more pretentious set of lobby furniture because the stuff they’ve selected for now looks---well, pedestrian. It’s like a doctor’s waiting room, frankly. What was there before, one might ask? The most tradable and coveted of all New York City commodities. Space. Empty, unoccupied, glorious space. The sign of luxury…class… old New York… grandness of scale… generosity.

Things without a name, without a price tag… make these newly-rich nervous. They don’t know quite how to behave. Stuck in an elevator with a delivery man? They have nothing to talk about. Forced by some natural or man-made disaster to survive among the non-labeled? Unthinkable.

As for me, I do not discount the possibility that the homeless woman is an angel, a sentinel. I strongly doubt this, because I have a feeling angels do not have that earthy scent. But we need her…as a reminder, maybe even a small annoyance…although unfortunately all the ones that need reminding are in Ambien-induced slumber and have forgotten about the magic of New York nights and the reason this real estate was coveted in the first place. At least Heath knew about this. He was just a little innocent. I miss him. Unfortunately it is most likely that the tenants who take over his pricey loft will not inherit his values.