BROOKLYN — When we arrived at our temporary home here, Brock Nelson was waiting with the keys.
Perhaps you haven’t heard of Brock Nelson. Not being a hockey follower, I hadn’t either. He’s a member of the New York Islanders. Here is how he and I became acquainted.
Daniel, my Airbnb host, was going to be gone before I arrived. So he did what any New Yorker would do: He left the door to his apartment wide open with a sign on it that said, “Dear burglars, come on in. Feel free to take all my valuables.”
Kidding. Daniel’s departure before my arrival meant that he had to leave keys for me. As citizens of the 21st century, we made these arrangements via text message. And as often happens with texting, these communiques were somewhat baffling.
Specifically: Daniel sent me a photo of a box sealed with a strip of duct tape with my name handwritten on it. Printed on the top of the box were the words “Military Appreciation Night.” Printed on the side was the word “Bobblehead” and a likeness of someone or other.
Daniel did not say what this photo had to do with my imminent sojourn in his apartment, so I ignored it. As for the keys, those would be “at the dry cleaners next door.”
***
It was my toughest State College-to-New York drive ever: first a flat tire, then snow, sleet and slop the whole way. The four-hour drive took seven.
But all’s well that ends well, you know? There was a parking spot right in front of Daniel’s building. Those of you who have better sense than to bring automobiles to large cities may not appreciate our jubilation at this turn of events. Better still, the Alternate Side of the Street Parking Gods were with us: We arrived after the street cleaners had come through last Thursday and will not have to move our car until they come again this Thursday.
With malice toward none, with charity for all, I strode into the dry cleaners next door and told Mr. Dry Cleaner I was there to pick up some keys.
“We don’t have any keys here,” he said.
“Hmmm,” I said. “My friend said he left his keys here for me.”
Mr. Dry Cleaner repeated his only line of dialogue. I felt myself beginning to go all malicious and uncharitable when a sharp-eyed member of my traveling party noticed the bobblehead box on a low shelf in the window. I broke the duct tape seal, freed Brock Nelson from his cardboard confinement and found, at the bottom of the box, the keys to Daniel’s kingdom. We were in.
***
But we were not done with keys secreted in curious locations. Other family members were arriving the next night to stay at another apartment in another part of Brooklyn. The keys to this apartment, we were told, were in a plastic bag in a cardboard box in a basket on the handlebars of a blue bicycle in front of the building.
When we got to the building – on foot – no way were we going to give up that parking spot – we saw no bicycle, blue or otherwise. Nor was Brock Nelson on hand to sort things out. Luckily, the blue bike owner was reachable by phone. Inexplicably, she had given us the wrong address – by two blocks.
Thus redirected, we extracted her keys from the bag in the box in the basket on the bike and went inside. Studio apartments in crowded, expensive towns like NYC are routinely described as shoe boxes. This is grossly unfair to the fine landlords who slice and dice their real estate holdings into as many living spaces as they can get away with. In fact, the apartment was roughly the size of a refrigerator box. It would have made a fine clubhouse for a group of 10-year-olds with wooden swords and garbage can lid shields.
That night we went to a bar frequented by young New Yorkers who live in refrigerator boxes. There I had a sharp pang of wanting another life to live when I’m done with this one. I had quit New York when I was their age in search of cleaner, quieter, prettier places. It wasn’t regret I felt, seeing these kids in a Brooklyn bar. It was idle curiosity: How might my life have played out if I had stayed? I felt like I was on an amusement park ride that was slowing down. I wanted to hop onto a different one.
That’s what I’m doing here this week, I guess, as I fumble for keys and meet bobblehead versions of professional hockey players: hopping, temporarily, into a different life. I even considered joining the Polar Bear Plunge at Coney Island on New Year’s Day. Instead, characteristically, I watched.
