Living Below Dead People

Coming home from Key Food supermarket this afternoon, I noticed an abundance of emergency personnel and their vehicles littered about 66th Street. While climbing the stairs, lugging my red cart full of groceries, I was surprised to see a large turnout of neighbors in the hallways, including the 45-year old woman next door who watches soaps, lives alone, cooks delicious smelling things, and whom I had never seen until an hour ago. Everyone was busily gossiping. As I was unlocking the door to my apartment, all I could hear was "Ah! It's a shame!," "Sometimes rats die in the walls and you can't get them out, so they just stink up the place," and "I hadn't seen him for 3 days!" With these kinds of comments circulating through the halls, I threw all the frozen foods in the freezer and rushed back to the peephole in my door to figure out what was going on.
First thing I noticed was no one was running or even rushing. The EMTs and cops were taking their time, and I kept hearing this guy (one of our neighbors from the 3rd floor; loud voice, wearing red flannel) talking about how he was once an exterminator and that "it" smelled like dead rats on the 3rd floor "but a little different, y'know?" Second thing I noticed was that no one was crying, and I was uncertain what this meant. Did someone die? Or were they not as badly injured as thought? Third thing I noticed was that I never heard anyone speaking directly to the sick person.


After waiting for a half-hour behind my door listening for answers, I overheard this conversation between the Spanish-speaking neighbor across the hall and a Muslim mom from the 4th floor: (paraphrased) "You know that guy up in C5 with longish hair down to here [Spanish-speaking neighbor makes reference to his shoulders]? He's been dead 2 whole days up there! ... It started to smell up the 3rd floor [holds his nose; grimaces dramatically] and so Zurab [Turkish landlord] called the cops... [in a whisper] overdosed." Both Spanish-speaking neighbor and Muslim mom shook their heads and went back into their respective apartments. I turned away from the peephole in the door only to hear two women upstairs calling the dead man's cat so they could remove it from the apartment.


The prevailing feeling that I got from what could be seen as a very tragic and dark moment, was anything but grave. People's expressions were grave, but despite the long faces, it felt almost like a block party with everyone's door open, everyone talking to everyone else, the EMTs and cops making light with the neighbors, all present agreeing just how smelly it was and sort of laughing like "Wow! Who would have thought we were smelling a dead guy for 2 days!" and then following up with "What a day, huh!" (as it's 70 degrees and perfectly sunny this afternoon). This is not to say the tenants of 1718 66th Street were uncaring or dismissive of the dead man. Among themselves, they located the dead man's father's phone number and contacted the building manager to talk to the EMTs. It's just that there was a certain lightness that was prominent; a giddiness, if you will, to take part in this team effort of remembering all one could remember about the dead man that no one in the apartment building was great friends with or related to.


On a personal note, this "phenomenon" of people living and dying all over you, as natural as it is to do so, is at times so compelling and other times so alienating to me. Initially, I wanted to go out and talk with all the neighbors about this man's death, and yet I felt uncomfortable that everyone (including myself) was suddenly in this man's tragic business. For me, it raises questions like: Is everyone completely desensitized to tragic situations, but not to entertaining situations after one has lived here (namely an urban environment) or simply just lived a considerable amount of time? Or is it more appropriate to say that everyone here is at one with the inevitable human shame that comes with life, and that this acceptance prompts a certain entitlement among everyone to know since we're all involved with everyone else eventually (i.e. a stranger smells your dead body and calls the cops)? Or is it neither, and rather an insatiable, universal desire for humans to know and speak of distant tragedy (in other words, tragedy that does not directly involve them)?
All I can know for sure is that, should I pass away in my apartment at 1718 66th Street, it will take about 48 hours until the neighbors call the cops.