In The Neighborhood

by Peter Lovenheim

With Nissim’s permission, I looked in on the company’s website for a registered, twelve-story apartment building in Brooklyn. On the message board, an exchange about plumbing began, “This may be a little personal, but is anyone else having issues with their toilets? Mine flushes very slowly . . .” Other message threads concerned problems with the building’s heat, and complaints about the slowness of repairs.

  Nissim wasn’t surprised by the nature of the postings. “The first level of communication between neighbors often is complaining about issues of the building,” he said. “There’s a pent-up frustration that gets released that way. When the neighbors finally get together about these issues, then you see a shift to more normal transactions—someone’s got a washer/dryer for sale, someone recommends a nearby hardware store or restaurant.”

  I also saw a different kind of posting:

  From a resident who was an art student: “Hello neighbors—Hope you can make it to my show—the opening is saturday 6-8 and will be up through january 12.”

  Nissim commented, “Eventually, the neighbor-to-neighbor conversations build into real social interaction: friendships evolve, love relations evolve. When you remove the barriers that keep people from speaking, who knows what else will develop?”

  Sometimes what develops is just tolerance. After getting to know some of the people in her Washington, DC, building, a woman wrote me: “[W]hen I come home to hear music through my walls (now), I don’t get angry. I just think that my neighbor, whom I now know personally, will certainly turn down the music in a bit so as not to disturb me, and he always does, because of course, he knows me personally, too.”

  A similar online service, though one that does not generally serve high-rise apartment buildings, is i-Neighbors.org. Users of i-Neighbors, according to director Keith Hampton, a sociologist at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania, generally reside in three areas: new suburban developments, established suburban developments, and the “20% most disadvantaged neighborhoods in America, which are mostly inner- city communities.” Founded in 2004, the nonprofit site, now active throughout the United States and Canada, aims to “create neighborhoods that are safer, better informed, more trusting, and better equipped to deal with local issues.” The service operates as an ongoing experiment in community building by a team of faculty and students directed by Hampton.

  “People have the perception that something is wrong today in the places they live,” says Hampton, “that their community is lost, and they are intent on trying to find it. Interestingly, the tendency is to blame technology for the loss, and to use technology to repair it.”

  I-Neighbors allows residents to post photos, restaurant reviews, and messages, but the most used and most useful feature, says Hampton, is the e-mail list. “People will only regularly check so many websites,” he explains, “but if you log on to your computer and an e-mail from a neighbor comes right into your regular e-mail, it has an impact.”

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “some homeowner associations—such as condos and town houses—want to control communication among neighbors.” He said homeowner associations actually had threatened i-Neighbors with lawsuits to try to prevent its members from using the service to communicate with each other. “They have rules against putting flyers and letters under neighbors’ doors,” said Hampton, “and they’ve tried to stop us from enabling neighbors to communicate with each other without the association’s approval.”

  Hampton’s own neighborhood backs up to a wooded area. “There was concern about people hunting deer and firing guns near homes. It was an issue the neighbors could communicate about using the e-mail list,” he said.

  In some areas, issues are even more serious. “There are neighborhoods in great distress as a result of crime, where neighbors use i-Neighbors literally to protect themselves,” he explained. “These are inner-city communities that face gang and drug activity. They are among some of the most active users of the site, using it to organize, help each other, and provide support to look out for and care for each other’s home and well-being.”

  “I can tell you something about your neighbors,” Brian Kenyon, my newspaper deliveryman, said. “They expect and appreciate and reward good service. They have set desires, but they’re also very understanding people. At times, I’ve lost my bearings and veered onto lawns.”

  Brian said this as he drove forward into 375 Sandringham, across to 370, forward into 350, then back and then forward again into 340 and back into 296. I needed air. I rolled down the window and unzipped my coat. As I tried some deep breathing, Brian continued his commentary on the culture of my street; unless I was mistaken, he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in calmly lecturing me as I hung my face out the window, gasping for air.

  “One lawn had just been reseeded,” he continued. “I called the guy and apologized and he said, ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it.’ When people speak of a neighborhood of affluence, they expect people to be cocky or power-tripping. I have yet to find that. While they may have money, I have found people have matured beyond cockiness.”

  By the time we backed out of 290—the O’Dells’ driveway—and across Sandringham and backward into the next driveway, I was sweating and didn’t really care what Brian thought of my neighbors. I only wanted to complete the van ride without embarrassing myself. I tried keeping my head down near my knees, a tactic that, ironically, caused me to miss seeing Brian toss the paper at the front door of my own house. At Lou Guzzetta’s, I looked up briefly to see his paper land at the side door.

  “I would love to live in a picture-perfect neighborhood like this someday,” Brian continued. “Will I ever obtain the money to do it? I don’t know. I’ll never do it the way some people have done it. I’ll never get a medical degree or go to law school.”

  Could he not see how sick I was? He just kept talking.

  We were near the Willses’ house. The end of the ride was in sight.

  “There was a murder . . . in this house,” I said to Brian. Speaking in short bursts felt like it might keep me from vomiting. “Guy killed his wife. Then himself. Kids were home.”

  Brian said he remembered it. “I don’t think I could live in a house where a murder occurred. I didn’t realize this was the house.”

  Brian took me halfway back up the street and dropped me off at my house. I picked up the newspaper from the front step. As I slipped it from the blue bag and unrolled it, out fell the insert for Don Pablo’s Mexican restaurant: CREATE YOUR OWN LUNCH COMBO $8.49 SPICY GROUND BEEF, PORK, CHEESE OR CHICKEN TACOS!

  I raced for the john.

  8

  A Father Ten Feet Tall

  WE took Sunday evening family supper in a small room on the back of the house, seated around a simple wooden table: Bill Fricke, at the head; his wife, Susan; thirteen-year-old Allison, eleven-year-old Jonathan, and me. On the floor nearby lay Pumpkin, their Duck Tolling Nova Scotia Retriever. We helped ourselves family-style to a casserole of white rice and veggies.

  Jonathan, whom they called “Bubba,” started the conversation. A friend’s mom, he said, had just been made Eastman Kodak’s chief of sales in the Far East. The whole family would be moving to Hong Kong for two years.

  In his measured, deep, flat Midwestern voice, Bill said to me, “You see, that’s what I mean by ‘boring.’ We would never be able to do that.”

  In interviews preceding my sleepover, Bill had repeatedly described his life as boring: work was boring, Rochester was boring, the routine of family life was boring. I wasn’t sure if he really meant it or was just being self-deprecating.

  “Living in another country for six months or a year—now that would be interesting,” he said.

  Bill Fricke, fifty- four, stood over six feet tall. He was lean and muscular, with short graying hair and a long, craggy face. Even before I learned he was born in central Illinois, it occurred to me that—given both his build and slightly melancholic bearing—if you put Bill in a dar
k suit and top hat, the president he would most resemble would be Abraham Lincoln.

  I asked Bill and Susan—they are both physicians—if they might spice up their lives by volunteering overseas with a group such as Doctors Without Borders.

  “Yeah, well, I think they’re looking for primary care docs . . .” said Bill.

  Bill was a pathologist and Susan a pediatrician specializing in autism.

  “Not a lot of autistic refugees?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” agreed Susan. “And a pathologist? I don’t think so.”

  Susan asked, “So how’s the book coming?” She spoke with traces of a New York accent. To Allison and Bubba, she added, “Remember, I explained Mr. Lovenheim is writing a book about the neighborhood?” The children nodded dutifully.

  I said it was coming along okay, and she asked whom else in the neighborhood I had interviewed. This was a question I was frequently asked by neighbors, and I always made sure to answer it honestly while still maintaining the trust of everyone who had opened up to me. I told Susan I’d interviewed Lou Guzzetta, Deb and Dave O’Dell, Jamie Columbus, Patti DiNitto, and some family members and friends of Renan Wills. She didn’t know the O’Dells or Patti, and hadn’t known Renan, but said she had run into Lou on the street once or twice while walking the dog.

  “Is it legal to ask what Lou Guzzetta’s like?” she asked. “Someone his age must have good stories about the neighborhood.” She added, “Do you remember him, Allison? We met him once walking the dogs.”

  Responding to Susan’s question—Is it legal to ask what Lou Guzzetta’s like?—was tricky. I was, after all, a guest in her home and it would have been courteous to answer. But neighbors frequently asked me about each other, and often the questions were more pointed: Does so- and-so work outside the house? Who’s that man I see going in and out every day? Did you hear anything about their family’s business being in trouble? I didn’t want to violate confidences, and I was sure being seen as loose-lipped would discourage people from talking to me, so whenever I was asked what I’d learned about a neighbor, I always demurred, as I did that evening with Susan.

  “Yes, Lou has some interesting stories,” I said to Susan, and hoped that she wouldn’t think me impolite for not saying more.

  The rest of the talk at dinner mostly concerned the children’s activities. Allison, an eighth grader, was in rehearsals for the school musical. Bubba, in sixth grade, was preparing for a presentation on Pablo Picasso the next morning. He’d made a papier-mâché figure of the artist and had a clever plan for presenting his report.

  Bill rose from the table, towering over his family and me, and went into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned carrying a fruit pie. Over dessert, the talk turned to plans for the next day. Allison would have chores to do before school, and after school would go to play rehearsal until 9:30. Bubba would have guitar and trumpet lessons, then ski club until 10. Susan would pack the children lunch as well as dinner.

  At 7:30 sharp, Bill announced dinner was over and that it was time for homework.

  “Who needs help?” asked Susan.

  “I do, with physics,” said Allison. She was pretty, slender like her father but petite like her mom, with a quiet, almost whispery voice. Eighth-grade midterms were tomorrow. “I just don’t understand it,” she said.

  Everyone helped clear the table, then Bubba went upstairs to work on Picasso while Bill, Susan, and I stayed in the kitchen.

  I’m sure the Frickes weren’t always the ideal family, but that evening—whether for my sake or not—they offered a good approximation of it. Their quiet, seemingly stable domesticity looked just fine to me, particularly since my own family had fallen apart. Parents at home on a Sunday evening with their kids? What a concept. Eating dinner, doing dishes, helping with homework? Bill Fricke was right—it was boring, but it was the most precious boring I could imagine, and I drank in every mundane detail.

  BILL Fricke hadn’t originally been on my short list for next neighbor to get to know. When a mutual friend introduced me to him some years earlier, Bill had struck me as quiet, even a little gloomy. But I was looking for a married couple with children—and I wanted to focus on the husband to balance my recent attention to Deb O’Dell, Jamie Columbus, and Patti DiNitto—so I couldn’t rule out Bill and his family. Still, I remembered those three neighbors who had rejected my requests. Though with thirty- six houses on the street there were plenty of neighbors left to meet, the number with children living at home was limited. I couldn’t afford to lose too many more, so with Bill, I was cautious.

  A common element of the three rejections, I realized, was that when I told my neighbors what I wanted to do, I had been inside their homes, or in one case, in front of their home on the driveway. Maybe asking permission to step inside people’s lives while actually inside their homes reminded them too easily of the privacy they were being asked to give up. Therefore, I decided with Bill to stay away from his house as long as possible.

  I arranged an initial meeting with Bill at Starbucks on a weekday evening. He wore an old sweatshirt and jeans. He said he wasn’t a coffee drinker and had rarely been to Starbucks. While he sipped a decaf iced tea, I sketched out my interest in exploring how we live as neighbors today. Almost immediately, Bill spoke of his own sense of isolation. “We live as strangers to each other,” he said.

  I hadn’t spent enough time with Bill yet to appreciate how this sentiment—his sense of living among strangers—was a rare source of discontentment within an otherwise contented life. It might be what the writer John Keats, in his antisuburbia novel of 1956, called “a crack in the picture window.” I wanted to explore the issue further with him, but not just yet—we still needed some time to get to know each other.

  I asked Bill if he’d do me the favor of allowing me to interview him about his background and his experience of living on Sandringham Road, and maybe later chronicle a typical day in his life. He agreed, and encouraged me to talk to Susan, as well. He asked if I’d use real names and I said I would like to. “Well,” he said, “you’re using your own real name. I guess it’s okay if you use mine. I mean, you’re not going to alienate the people you’re living among.”

  My interviews with Bill began that evening at Starbucks and continued over three or four sessions in several other coffee shops. It wasn’t until four months later that I even entered his house, and that was to interview Susan. Later, I pointed out that chronicling a day in Bill’s life—which by then I knew began at 6 a.m.—would be easier if I could stay over the night before. He and Susan both agreed, but Bill warned me, of course, that sleeping over would be “boring.”

  BY Sandringham standards, the Frickes’ kitchen was modest, with limited counter space. That Sunday evening after dinner, Susan, just 5 foot 2—a foot shorter than Bill—stood at the sink and loaded the dishwasher. Behind her, Pumpkin sat waiting for scraps. Bill stood bent over a counter where Allison was studying physics.

  Between cleaning the dishes and helping with homework, Bill and Susan coordinated the next day’s schedule. Who would pick up Allison and Bubba after school and again after evening activities, who would shop for groceries, who would prepare dinner? Though the next day was Monday, it was not one of the two Mondays a month when, in the evening, Bubba had Boy Scout meetings or campouts. Bill always went with him. “I think it’s important for fathers to do these things with a child,” he told me earlier.

  Susan, finished with the dishes, began preparing Bubba’s and Allison’s meals for the next day. As we chatted, I noted her use of Yiddish terms: Bubba was “boychik,” the dog’s stuffed toy was a “shmata.”

  Bubba popped in to ask if he could watch The Simpsons. Earlier, Bill had told me the family seldom watched TV—they didn’t get cable and one of their sets was an old black- and-white. But The Simpsons and some news shows were occasional exceptions to the rule, and Susan told Bubba if all his homework was done, he could watch.

  At some point, I became aware that Bill was not arou
nd.

  “He’s in the garage,” said Susan, “washing the cars.”

  “Washing the cars?”

  It was seven degrees out—I knew that because I’d checked earlier that evening before I left my house to walk to the Frickes’. I opened the door to the attached garage and what I saw surprised me: there was Bill, in black rubber boots and gloves, sloshing soapy water from a bucket over Susan’s minivan and his Toyota Camry. I watched as he scrubbed the cars with a long-handled black brush and then rinsed them with a garden hose.

  It had not occurred to me that any resident of my street—let alone a physician—would be out in his garage on a frigid night washing cars. Bill told me he washed the cars at least weekly during the winter because road salt builds up. “You can see we’re not into fancy cars,” he said, “but they’re a big expense, and if it helps to keep them running so we can get another year out of them, I figure it saves twenty thousand dollars. Plus, I suppose they just look better.”

  I could see Bill’s point about road salt, but I didn’t quite buy that washing the cars by hand was mostly about money. After all, this was a family with two physicians’ salaries, and though I didn’t know Bill and Susan’s income, I was pretty sure they could afford to go to a car wash if they wanted and get “the works”—including undercarriage salt removal—whenever they wished. I suspected Bill’s choice to hand- wash the cars was about his own sense of frugality and the value of physical labor, and to demonstrate those values to his children. Probably for the same reason, Bill cut his own grass and cleared the snow from the sidewalks on both sides of their corner lot. (The Frickes were often the only residents of Sandringham, including me, who in the winter regularly kept their sidewalks clear.) That probably also explained why the radio on the kitchen counter was an old GE table-top in a brown leather case and not a BOSE, why the refrigerator was not a Sub-Zero, and why the mushrooms in the dinner casserole came from a second freezer in the basement where Susan stored vegetables she bought in bulk.