Bottleneck

May 28, 2007

Yesterday morning, we awoke to find our apartment without running water. No showers, no coffee, no flushing away morning dumps. I wondered if it was just our building, or if a water main broke in the neighborhood like the one in the East Village that left "Thousands Without Water" last week. I called the building superintendent, who was apparently hearing the news for the first time. He said he'd get on the case right away. A few hours later, we were still wondering what was up and what to expect, so I called again, but this time the super didn't answer. Deborah dialed 311 and was told the city would send someone from the housing department to investigate. Our loft building isn't an entirely legal living situation, so it was hard to know what that might mean, but without running water, an illegal living situation eventually becomes an impossible one.

In the meantime, Deborah walked to the store and bought a few gallon jugs of water. A handful of industrious early risers from the local "Trees Not Trash" crew were planting shrubs and watering flowers in a nearby vacant lot. They kindly offered to refill the jugs with their hose if she needed more.

Since there was little else we could do about the situation, we decided to make the most of the day and head to Prospect Park. Many people left town for the long weekend, so the park was relatively quiet. Not entirely quiet, of course, but quiet enough for us to find a nice little place in the sun for an afternoon snooze.

When we got home, I immediately checked the faucet to see if the water was on. The tap gurgled and spat murky gray water for a moment, and then a steady stream ran clean and clear. Nice. We could relax.

Until this morning, that is, when we woke up to find it off again.

I ran into my next-door neighbor on the street. She told me that she spoke to the Fire Department, and they told her that one of the units in our building had sewage seeping into their apartment and that it would be a while before everything was sorted out.

"Apparently, people have been partying on the roof and throwing their empty bottles down the drain pipes or the vent pipes or something," my neighbor said.

"Are you serious? What the fuck kind of assholes would—Seriously, where the hell do they think those bottles go? Do they think those vents are just some kind of magic disappearing tubes? So what are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know. They said that they might have to start tearing into walls one by one until they find where the blockage is."

Apparently, making bottles disappear into drain pipes isn't the only trick the 24-hour party people perform. Sometimes they make them disappear by tossing them from the roof. The Armenian guys who own the auto repair shop across the street have had some of their cars hit. My neighbor said she heard one of the Armenians screaming his head off about it. His face was sweaty and red, and rope-thick veins throbbed beneath the scars on his neck as he yelled: "I'm gonna kill every last one of those motherfuckers!"

"He was scary," she said.

"I don't blame him," I said. "This neighborhood is like Pleasure Island from Pinnocchio, full of Donkey Boys trying to act like big shots. And after they turn into full-fledged donkeys, there's a whole new crew to take their place. I ran into a guy in the hallway a few months ago, and we started talking — I don't remember what about, probably something else was wrong with the building or something — anyway, he says to me, 'I haven't seen you around. Are you new?' I told him I've lived here nearly four years. He tells me he's been here four months. The guy has been here four months, and he asks if I'm new."

"He probably figured he hadn't seen you throwing bottles down the sewage vents, so you must be new. There's a whole party circuit around here, y'know? And—well—you and I aren't really a part of it," said my neighbor. "But our Irish friend certainly is."

She was referring to the Irish guy who lives in the apartment next to hers and keeps her up all night with parties that last until dawn, or sometimes until midday. Her solution is the same as Deborah's: sleeping with earplugs.

"Let's hope the city doesn't come in and condemn the whole building," I said.

"Don't say that."

"I know. I just hope they sort everything out soon."

"Me too. The Bushwick Open Studio thing is next weekend. I'm putting some stuff up with a photographer friend of mine over at her place. But the only paintings I have right now are big and expensive. I was hoping to make some smaller pieces to sell. I really need to wash my brushes!"