On Queens Boulevard, five floors below my apartment, there is a loose manhole cover that rattles loudly every time a car passes over it. You know the sound: clung-clung. Clung-clung.
Aside from four dorm rooms in Waltham and two houses in Medford and Somerville, I've lived on Queens Boulevard for my entire life. I am no country mouse appalled by the cacophony of fire engines, Hatzolah ambulances and that one guy who used to wade into the traffic to scream every Saturday night; I'm accustomed to New York City noise. But there is something about that manhole cover, that goddamn clung-clunging manhole cover, that's slowly breaking me.
Several years ago, after having filed at least a half-dozen 311 reports about the manhole cover, I reached out to NY1 for help via their "NY1 for You" segment. I sent them some video clips of my manhole cover and a reporter met me on Queens Boulevard before work to interview me. Within days, my manhole cover was fixed and the reporter drove back to film new footage of me gazing blissfully at the manhole cover refusing to clung — a peaceful, silent oasis amid the honking horns and sirens.
Months passed. Life on Queens Boulevard spooled on. Then one afternoon I heard it again: the dreaded clung-clung. 311 is useless. Someone at Councilwoman Karen Koslowitz's claimed he had visited the corner and could hear no clung-clunging; I sent him a video clip and he ghosted me. And NY1's "NY1 for You" segment is no more.
My manhole cover has become more than a nuisance, more than one of the many indignities we put up with when we live in a New York City apartment. It's become an obsession. It's become a representation of every fantasy I've ever had about living somewhere else. If we left the city, the thinking goes, there would be no loud drunken arguments on the sidewalk at 4 a.m., no yappy-dog neighbor circling the block at regular intervals every morning and evening, and definitely no clung-clunging manhole cover.
Last week, a giant rat squeezed his fat ass out of a crack in the sidewalk directly in front of me and scampered off. Last month, a raving man on the subway yelled at Eli and Phil, frightening Eli and throwing an orange at Phil. (Obviously there are worse ways to be attacked on the subway than by produce, but still.)
I think it always feels this way at the end of a New York City winter: Any snow that's left on the sidewalks is grimy and soiled, the air feels raw outside but stale on the subway, and there comes a moment for every New Yorker who comes upon a suspicious crosswalk slush puddle where we ask ourselves, What are we doing this for?
So today, on a whim, we went house hunting in Glen Ridge, NJ. The houses were really lovely. They had driveways, so you wouldn't have to circle the block to find a parking space or drive the car when you don't need to go anywhere because of street cleaning regulations or decide not to drive the car when you do need to go somewhere because you don't want to lose your parking spot, which is the probably the dumbest thing about owning a car in New York City. They had yards and porches, so you could just step outside and...be outside. They had washers and dryers, so you could do the laundry without having to put on a bra, load money onto the laundry card and beat out your neighbors for control of the machines. They had multiple bathrooms, so you could take a shower without a child barging in to poop (or presumably, vice versa). They had stainless steel appliances and Elfa storage system components and original tin ceilings. They had features I'd only ever heard about on "House Hunters," like "breakfast nooks" and "powder rooms" and "shoe closets." When we got to the upstairs of one house and opened a door to discover another bathroom, Eli shouted, "IT'S LIKE A BATHROOM WORLD!" (Someone asked me if he had been planted to hype up the house by exclaiming over how much space there was.)
But as we toured these houses, instead of feeling tantalized by the possibility of owning one or even envious of the people who already did, I began to feel somehow stunted, as if I was defective because I had been deprived of some crucial phase of adulthood. I, like the homeowners, was a fully grown human with a job and a child and a dog, but I did not have a pantry or a mudroom area or a Bosch dishwasher. At one of the houses, the agent confided in us as we walked in, "This house hasn't been staged. This is just how they live. Can you believe it?"
I looked around at the immaculate living room, at the Smith & Noble light filtering shade and the Nest thermostat and the Miele dishwasher. I could not believe it.
Because of course, part of the fantasy of leaving New York City is that I'll somehow get to leave other things behind as well, like self-doubt and laziness and the dishes that pile up in the sink. I'll leave behind all the parts of myself I don't like, and in my new home I'll be neater, kinder and a better cook. (Or is not true that the Wolf range doesn't actually do the cooking for you? The brochure was unclear.)
Because I'm almost certain that my fantasy of leaving New York City is just that — a fantasy. I could tell you it's because we can't really afford a house or because I honestly can't stand for my commute to get one minute longer or even because we love so many things about our neighborhood — and we do! I know that for many people, moving to the suburbs after you have children is an obvious next step, a natural progression to give your children space and sunlight. I've even been resentful in the past of people who have treated our neighborhood like a stopover on the way to somewhere else when I have such deep roots here that I honestly just don't know if I know how to live anywhere else, or if I have the energy and inclination to figure out how.
I know, I know the saying goes "home is where the heart is," and I disagree. My home is deep inside my bones, a pair of comfortable pajamas it's taken decades to break in. A manhole cover that's been worn down by thousands of cars.
The fantasy wherein I ask, "Who would I be if I were somewhere different?" has its flip side: Who would I be if I were somewhere different? I'd have a finished basement, but not Eddie's Sweet Shop. I'd have a porch on which to sip my morning coffee, but a longer walk to the train.
The idea of leaving New York City for a house in the suburbs does sometimes seem like an enticing adventure. But the thing about embarking on an adventure by moving somewhere different is that pretty soon it ceases to be an adventure and starts to be your everyday life. After that it comes down to all your basic pros and cons: Would I be happier spending more time on a train if it meant I had room for a treadmill in my basement? Could I revel in the quietude of my non-clunging street if it meant I would have to shovel my own driveway? It's an ouroboros of questions.
There's that study that says planning a vacation makes you happier than actually taking it. So if you need me, I'll be here watching "House Hunters" and perusing Trulia listings. And wincing every time my goddamn manhole cover clungs. Because you know what they say, it's the little things that make it feel like home.
It's easier to leave than to be left behind
Leaving was never my proud
Leaving New York never easy
I saw the light fading out
-REM
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