It has been a few years since I moved out of Regale Park. I still miss the location—the apartment tucked next to a synagogue and a Catholic Shrine that served the best Italian food in the area. I miss the Italian Club down the street, a place where people were “connected,” and the ease of access to the local watering holes. The rent was outrageous for a small apartment, but it isn’t much more than the mortgage I pay now.
I have a lot of good memories from that place, but the one I’ll discuss here is rooted in pure Schadenfreude.
My apartment was on the second floor with a Western exposure. It gave me a perfect view of the street as the traffic piled up. Right outside my window was a steep hill that became a site of absolute struggle during inclement weather, especially snow.
I would hear the roaring of the tires—first that low, desperate ree-ree as they struggled for purchase, then the high-pitched squeal when the driver realized they weren’t going to make it. If you were lucky, you’d catch them falling back; if you missed one, you were sure to catch another soon enough.
This became part of my morning entertainment. I would stand there in my pajamas, coffee brewed, relishing the fact that school was cancelled. I had nothing to do—no papers to grade, no reason to leave the warmth. The heat and hot water in my building ran through my rent, making them feel like an infinite resource.
I would see a car come and know immediately it wasn’t going to make it. I’d take a sip of coffee, tasting the pleasure of the French Vanilla, smiling as I watched. The pickups, the sedans, the broken-down jalopies—they all tried. I sat and watched like a rubbernecker at an accident.
Sip. The car struggled.
Sip.
The tires shrieked.
Deeper sip. The car fell back to the bottom.
I smiled, glad I wasn’t them. Like Sisyphus, they would try again and fail. I remember in 2013, the mayor decided not to plow, and a blizzard hit the East Coast. At nine in the morning, I watched a Frito-Lays truck get stuck in the complex across the street. Six men worked vigorously to get it out, their faces turning beet-red against the white.
I sipped my coffee, relishing the warmth I felt, and watched their eternal struggle continue until 5:30 that afternoon. Maybe there’s a word for people like me. I say that word is observant.
I sipped my coffee, relishing the warmth I felt, and watched their eternal struggle continue until 5:30 that afternoon. Six men, red-faced and soaked, pushing a truck that wasn’t going anywhere, for people who wouldn’t get their chips on time.
At some point, I stopped pretending I was just watching.
The coffee went cold in my hand, but I didn’t move. I stayed there because nothing asked anything of me. Because I could afford to wait. Because my heat still worked and my job would still be there and the hill outside my window wasn’t my problem.
Years later, that’s what I miss most about Regale Park—not the location, or the bars, or the view.
I miss standing still while other people worked themselves into exhaustion, and knowing I didn’t have to help.