A Damn Shame

One of the most jarring things for many people that come to New York City is the proximity. When you're here, everything you might need is right around the corner in almost any neighborhood. All night delis, music venues, restaurants, museums (you won't really go to them, but it's neat that they are there) and stores of all varieties are all within a reasonable distance. After all, many people here don't have a car, or have never driven one, or think that they are a dangerous invention and that the steam engine was as far as we needed to take human ingenuity. That makes for a a very cloistered atmosphere, where everything is right on top of everything else. If you aren't claustrophobic, it's convenient as hell.
Naturally, this means the people are also right on top of each other, and not just in the biblical sense. Remove the walls of the tiny living room I'm writing this in, and I might be surrounded. Ten feet to my left is an elderly couple, twelve feet below me is a professional bachelor from India. Just over my head is a pair of young lovers that like to stomp around the floor at six each morning. You get the idea. Privacy becomes important to people here because it feels so fragile, something that doesn't exist for much of the day. The trains, streets, and places of business are so loud and crowded that any moments you have to yourself become sacred. Invasions of that privacy can range from being a nuisance to being terrifying, but I had a one recently that was simply heartbreaking.
I recently moved from a large apartment building to a converted family house. The walls in the larger place were paper-thin. I could hear my next-door neighbor's kids crying, the young lady upstairs cackling and copulating, and sometimes the superintendent in the basement tied his shoes at a deafening volume. You get used to it.
One of the last nights I was in this apartment I was lying on my bed, staring at my phone, and putting off sleep for no particular reason when I hear George, the old Greek man that shared my bedroom wall, answer his phone. George was hard of hearing, so he talked on the phone pretty loudly. Also, he was Greek, so he probably would have been conversationally yelling most of the time anyway. He answered in English, but didn't go straight into Greek the way he usually did when talking on the phone. My ears pricked up involuntarily.
'"Yannis? That you? What you saying? My brother in Greece died?"
I know it seems unlikely, but he really did give both sides of the conversation like someone in a stage play.
Then the crying started.
I have never been around an old man crying. They are a pretty stoic bunch. George lived alone. His father, who must have been at least 90, had stayed with him until he passed last year. Maybe the fact that he was alone in his place made him feel safe enough to let it out. Or maybe he just really loved his brother. He sobbed into the phone, alternating between Greek and English for the next couple minutes. Then he said he needed to call his sister in Athens. He wept loudly for a few minutes before calling her.
I felt horrible. I felt I shouldn't be listening, that the man should be allowed his privacy for this tragedy. Of course, I was in my own room, in my own apartment. It felt weird to go into the living room because of someone I barely knew that wasn't even in the room with me. Other than all that though, leaving felt like the easy way out, and people who know me can tell you I don't take the easy (or smart) way out of anything.
George eventually called his sister and gave her the bad news. The sobbing started up again in earnest and it went on for what felt like hours. I wanted to do something, but what? I didn't know this man. Just because he was alone doesn't mean he needs me and my sympathy butting in. Not to mention that if I went next door with a bundt cake and said 'sorry for your loss' he would have known I was listening in.
It was one of those moments where this city thrusts someone else's tragedy into your life. It didn't affect me directly, it was really none of my business. It still kept me up all night, long after George finished crying. There's a reason why they tell you New Yorker's don't want to get involved. It's not always because they don't want to be sued.