The first apartment I rented when I moved to New York was on East 6th Street between First and Second Avenues. The apartment was a 300 square foot studio with a 6th-floor walk-up that I shared with my roommate, Dave. To an outsider, the neighborhood seemed very sketchy. But it wasn’t. Because on East 6th, Rudy made it safer – and I’m not talking about Giuliani. Our Rudy was a well-dressed, friendly older gentleman who sat on our front steps all day and night just hanging out. We never knew what Rudy did for a living, but my roommate and I knew him as “The Mayor of East 6th Street”. He wasn’t homeless. He was everyone’s friend, knew everyone’s business, and watched over our street. I always looked forward to seeing him when I left in the morning for school and came home late at night from work.
Around the corner, on First Avenue, there was a small hardware store that duplicated keys and sold everything that you’d find in a Home Depot. Whenever a relative mailed us a package, Tony, the owner of the store, would hold it for us. If a guest came to town and needed to use the apartment, Tony would hold the keys for them. He had a wealth of knowledge on just about every topic. Not as much data as Alexa or Siri, but definitely more insight.
On my late-night walks home from bartending in the Village, depending on the route I would take, I would pass at least 15 music venues. I was partial to jazz clubs, so I’d usually stop at the Village Gate, Sweet Basil, or The Bottom Line for a drink and catch the last set of the artist of the week. I never had to pay the door fee or for a drink. It was one of the benefits of reciprocity among the people in the restaurant and club business. We all knew each other. I got to know great artists like Sonny Rollins, Tracy Chapman, Tito Puente, and Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers. Working Monday nights was the worst night of the week for tips, but bearable, because after my shift I could go across the street to The Village Gate and enjoy “Jazz meets Salsa” before I headed home.
On the opposite corner of my street, next to the laundromat, there was a Korean deli. The owner, Mr. Lee, either had a twin brother or worked 24 hours a day. No matter when I went into the store, he was always behind the counter. Mr. Lee’s deli had everything I ever needed. Milk. Sandwiches. Batteries. A plunger. Bagels. Mouse traps. Bleach. Better and even faster than Amazon.
All of these people I met on the sidewalks, in the stores, and in the clubs were an integral part of my day and became the texture of the tapestry of my life. They gave my days an extra dimension of humanity. If you lived in New York City during this time period, you know what I’m talking about. Every neighborhood had a Rudy, Tony, and Mr. Lee.
The neighborhood has changed. I walked down 6th Street recently and Rudy is gone. The stage at The Village Gate is now home to the Cold and Flu section of a CVS. The clubs have disappeared. Tony is gone and his hardware store is sitting vacant. Mr. Lee’s deli is vacant. The laundromat is vacant. Actually, one in every three storefronts in the city are vacant. The rents are too high to sustain small businesses, and in the landlord’s defense, the taxes are too high, and they have little incentive to lease out a vacant store if they can’t get their rent. Because of this impasse, the price we pay as a community is high.
Jane Jacobs, the greatest Greenwich Village activist, wrote in her 1961 book, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, that our cities reflect our culture. Most global cities are now suffering from a pandemic of homogeneity. On almost every corner of every major city in the world, we see the same retailers. Zara. Starbucks. Sephora. Subway. The experience is reliably consistent and unsurprising. The business model du jour in every industry seems to be the obliteration of diversity and competition. Disruption by destruction. One brand.
It won’t last though. People need diversity to thrive. Among this sameness, it becomes easier to be extraordinary. This means that for those of us who are willing to step up and step out, we are presented with an incredible opportunity to deliver something unique. To seek out and find the humanness in our experiences with each other – to be like Rudy, Tony, and Mr. Lee.