If I were to compile a list of daily elements which made my time in New York exciting, at the top, you’d find “Checking the Mail.” Unlike any other place I lived, my daily peek into the tiny mail-slot just inside that front stoop off East 97th Street was a moment wrought so deeply with anticipation, that, if the box marked Trew/Taylor/Shepherd lay empty, I honestly might have experienced some difficulty finding sleep later that night.

In Manhattan, or during that time there, a piece of mail was much more costly than gold; it was a sanctifying grace. [Maybe not, but at the least a letter every now and again was meaningful.] I couldn’t forget the first time I peered around each name above the mailboxes in the entryway, and how strikingly apparent it was which tenants had been occupying their space the longest, and who hadn’t.

The longest-tenured names had been scripted carefully upon a yellowed note-card clipping in a manner with which I’d previously thought only my Grandma Naomi capable. The more recent names had been etched with a red pen in all capital letters, and some had been printed using a label maker, back when such machines were still widely accessible.

The remainder of names had been scribbled on little stickers, stacked layer upon layer, and much like the rings of the tree, one could easily see an entire history by peering beneath the outermost layer. Our apartment was of this variety. We lived in a “turnover suite,” and from the assortment of nameplates above the mailbox, one could easily get a sense for the deep rift between the transplants and residents of New York City.

On Friday afternoon, Bob, Landlord of Vickery, handed me my set of keys. Since the mail-room in Manhattan had become such a sanctum for me, my first instinct was to find the corresponding area here. Not that I was expecting any mail just yet, but I was curious to see how Dallas’ take might compare.

When I arrived to the front of the building, I immediately observed how much cleaner are things here than they are in Spanish Harlem. But, it wasn’t that that set me into motion. Like before, what intrigued me most were the names - or - the stories they embodied.

I quickly scanned them all, memorizing each, as well as each’s position among the others. Printed stately in Adobe Garamond, and each perfectly consistent with the next, I could see no visible differences among any of them, and as a result I had no clue to the length of each’s tenure, unlike in my previous apartment. But it seemed as if I were able to save this scene’s image to my mind I might be able to glean something of each individual’s character and his or her relationship to the whole.

Right next to SHEPHERD is WOLFE, which is humorously appropriate. Across from WOLFE was HUFF, and next to HUFF is CROSS. CROSS hangs next to DAVIES, and on its leftmost edge is FANT. Directly across from FANT and next to WOLFE on the perimeter of the space was a box with no name at the top. And the space where the little 2″ X 4″ nametag belonged was a large void, and it was nearly haunting.

Just today as I was locking up my apartment before a trip to Target, a meddlesome man in his late thirties burst into the hallway from outside.

“DWAYNE!” He shouted.

“DWAYNE!” I shouted back, reflexively.

“Hey there. I’m Dwayne. I’m the new guy!” For all he knew, I had lived here my entire life.

“Yeah?” Rejoinder was on its way.

“I’m Andrew, and actually, I’m the new guy. Just moved in yesterday.”

“No Shit!?” Dwayne was confused. I could smell the marijuana on his purple cardigan.

“Cool man. Well. I’m gonna run and get a shower curtain from Target. Sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Welp, you ever got computer problems, man, I fix whatever shits ya got yerselves into.” Dwayne seemed like a nice guy.

In the two days since I moved in, I’ve met only one other tenant, and her name is Ivonne. I met her during my first day, when I’d locked both my keys and my phone out of my apartment with no way to get back in or contact anyone for help. I sat hopelessly sweaty for upwards of two hours, but unlike all other living situations of my past, this time I had no roommate to compensate for my forgetfulness.

Ivonne pulled into the driveway in a late 90’s, primer grey Toyota Corolla. She slowly steered into the spot next to my car, and after she parked, I saw the driver’s side door crack a little.

“Do you live here?” I eagerly asked.

After I heard a quiet “Uh, Yeah?” I asked if she might not mind sharing the open door with me so I could get back inside.

She asked if Landlord Bob hadn’t informed that beneath one of the unit’s breaker boxes an outdoor key was hidden. When I denied that he had [followed by a murmur that that detail would have been a nice one to know] she grinned, as if Bob was regularly guilty of this sort of oversight.

I wondered about the ways Bob might have let her down in the past, but what was at least obvious is that he’s been consistent enough in his habits to push this grin into her cheeks. Still, I resisted asking anything else of her. Two questions, I thought, had been enough for our first encounter.

Opening the door, she allowed me in first. She followed closely after, burdened by a heap of fresh laundry.

“Thank you sooo much,” I offered, sincerely.

After a bashful nod, Ivonne walked into the apartment where Phantom of the Opera was blaring, and softly shut her door.

Looking back, I might not have preferred to meet my first neighbor in another way. And I quickly concluded: “What better way is there to enter into relationship with this girl than to display my complete reliance on her for my well-being?” If not for the grace which I am given by others not unlike Ivonne, well, then, I am no more than a helpless, hopeless sweaty guy in a proverbial parking lot.

I do hope that my time at Vickery might mean my envelopment into a comm-unity whose life has nothing to do with isolation or alienation [apart from embodying our Freedom from it], but is caught up in the cordial Rhythm of People working as one towards one Goal - going Home.

The Way there was not one designed to be traveled alone, so along it, it is imperative that we seek out neighbors with which to share open doors - and likewise seek out doors with which to offer openings. Neither the neighbor nor the door by themselves tell the whole story, but rather, they together take part[icipation] in The Sharing. And in that beautiful act, neither are lost, and both are fulfilled. From my first meeting with Dwayne and Ivonne, I can’t help but imagine that a beautiful Unity-in-Diversity has, even now in these early Vickerian stages, begun to work itself out.

God, please bring The Rain.
Yeah, bring it soon.