🫖 Good morning, Insecure Nation. Today’s Tea plays with form. Two sections, two styles. And the main character is my neighbor, Mac.1 Today, the playlist grows with five songs for and about strangers. 🫖
Mac, per insecure prose
The tip of my key was entering the lock when I looked to the left and saw a man sitting on the stoop. He was a familiar face. Mac. My neighbor. Sometimes I pass him in the stairwell, huffing and puffing to get to the fifth-story walkup where he’s lived for more than thirty years. I’d put him in his late fifties, or early sixties. A childless bachelor with twinkling blue eyes, and an implacable East Coast accent—Long Island? Boston?
—Hi, Mac.
—Hi! How’s it going? Do you live in 4B? I live right above ya.
—Yep! I’m Charlotte—we’ve met! You gave me that mod pink barstool you were getting rid of.
—Oh, you changed your HAIR!
—That’s right: I dyed it brown a little while ago.
—How’s that chair working out for ya?
—It’s nice! I actually use it as a little side table for a plant.
—You wanna beer?
My key was still tentatively poised. I hadn’t been home in fourteen waking hours. My skin was caked with dried sweat and sunscreen. It was after 22:00 and I hadn’t eaten real dinner—just some chips and guacamole at a happy hour separated by many long, less happy hours. I had no particular desire for a beer. Still, almost reflexively, sprung forth the following words:
—Sure, okay!
Sometimes in life, you just have to say yes.
Mac unzipped an insulated lunchbox that was a Tetris of frosty blue ice packs and PBRs. I sat beside him on the narrow lip of concrete next to the door of our building. He methodically rolled a brown paper bag to hug the can. Handing it to me, he remarked: “Here! I even made you a cozy.”
I made a hole in the tin with that undeniably perfect mechanism, that produces an undeniably perfect sound. The beer was the ideal temperature, I noted without surprise. This was not Mac’s first rodeo.
We shot the shit for an hour or so. I learned a lot about the man. He’s a project coordinator at a solar energy company. His passion, however, is music. He sings, plays the guitar, hooks himself up to a harmonica holder. This was unexpected: usually, musical neighbors make themselves known.
He works from home, and when he gets cabin fever he likes to have a beer or two on the stoop. He always brings an extra just in case. Over the course of thirty years, his apartment has been a revolving door of brothers, roommates and nieces. When he first moved, the East Village was one of the most dangerous places in the city. I recall a mnemonic expression about Alphabet City from the 80s— “Avenue A: a-okay. Avenue B: be aware. Avenue C: see you later!” (here’s a list from a website hilariously titled NYCisnotscary.com). He told me that things got scary again during the mass exodus of the pandemic. I peered at the aquarium in front of my eyes. A serene stream of fancy-free youths on their way to or from buying alcohol or ice cream. It’s certainly not the After Hours hellscape it once was.
I told him about my job, my writing, my upbringing, the improv class I’m bombing. Conversation flowed easily with Mac. At one point, he flagged down a bald muscular man walking 1,000 full-sized dogs to say hi. They are members at the same community garden. The man didn’t have time for a beer: despite the late hour, he apparently still had a few more rounds of dogs to walk.
Mac, Rex, Felix, Flavia, Squeeze, Chito. It’s a village full of preposterous characters. It’s true that there is something cartoonish about the people who have chosen to live and die here. But, they also make such an insane place feel real and human.
The sea of “That Girl’s” in exercise dresses, ‘fascist’ Bass Pro Shops raiders and East Villains will eventually find identities that are more complex than “I live in New York right now.”
Mac wants to throw a party. I imagine ascending one flight and sipping out of a red solo cup with my landlord, fellow tenants and God knows who else. Just give me a time, Mac. I owe you a beer, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
mac: a poem
mac used to go to o’hanlon’s
it was his Spot
he was like family at o’hanlon’s
the bartender would collect his mail and
watch his car when he was out of the city
one time, mac flew across the country
spontaneously
and when his sister, a cop, wondered where he was
the first person she called was the bartender at o’hanlon’s
i don’t know what changed
past tenses cast tensions
real or imagined
silhouetted pantomimes of crashing chairs and
broken glass
5 songs for strangers
“Strangers When We Meet,” The Smithereens
For some reason, this is THE song that is always stuck in my head. It’s been that way for years. When I think “song,” the opening bars start to unfold in my mind’s ear.
🎶 Please don’t look my way when you see me on the street: we will still be strangers when we meet. 🎶
“I Was A Stranger,” Smog
I love the story this song tells. It’s kooky and Western and conveys a lot with a little.
🎶 And why do you women in this town let me look at you so bold when you have seen what I was in the last town? 🎶
“Sin Triangle,” Sidney Gish
I’m drawn to Sidney Gish’s precocious lyrics. This song powerfully captures the isolation of being in college. The vertigo of feeling like a stranger, surrounded by people with whom you’ve gotten too close too fast.
🎶 Friendly girls are trying to comfort me as if I’m a depressed chick at a frat party. 🎶
“Nobody Knows What’s Going On (In My Mind But Me),” The Chiffons
It always comes back to juiciness lol. This is a simple but juicy Sixties girl group banger.
🎶 Everybody says I’m too young but what do they know? 🎶
“Strangers,” The Kinks
One of the most beautiful songs in the world. In an interview, Davies explained that the song was inspired by the Hank Williams line: “I’ll never get out of this world alive.” He began writing a song dedicated to a close friend who died young of a drug overdose. The song is about “what might of been if he hadn’t died so tragically.”
🎶 If I live too long, I’m afraid I’ll die. 🎶
🫖 Thank you for being here! Your readership means the world to me. Pet a cat. Buy an overpriced croissant and throw half of it away. Talk to your neighbor. Live decadently! 🫖
Name changed to respect his privacy lol.