What side of the stairwell you choose does make a difference.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
"Those are some steep stairs aren't they?" commented a nameless neighbor, as she ascended ahead of me.
Oddly, I had had a similar thought the moment before.
Usually, I go up on the other side of the staircase, but since I had a few extra minutes today I decided to explore the shops across the street from Peekskill Station.
My, first stop was His and Her Cleaners. A rinky-dink outfit that was the most spartan cleaners I've ever been in. There was no spinning clothesline, welcome counter or cash register with an Asian man to greet you—looking over his reading glasses, stating "Yes, may I help you?," proceeding to “mistakenly” overcharge your credit card, pretending to be flustered by his ignorance, and proceeding to handwrite on your receipt a “credit” for the difference, which he knows that you’ll forget to redeem the next time you come in two weeks later.
No, this time there was simply a middle-aged redneck-of-a-man sitting behind a desk in an office with wood paneling from the seventies. The clothes were hanging on a single five foot portable coat rack to the side.
I had to ask a question to get him to look up from his cell phone.
"Excuse me, do you have a rate card?"
"A what?" he responded, genuinely bewildered, with a troubled look on his face.
I explained.
Snarkling, he replied, "Oh, we don't have none of those," proceeding to list the rates, "Nine dollars for suits, buck seventy five for shirts..."
I stopped him with a wave of a hand and a "Thanks," but no thanks, promptly moving on to my next stop, the deli next door.
This was likewise as bare.
In Manhattan we presumed that these kind of bare-bones operations were merely narcotics fronts, drug shacks disguised as bodegas. There was no way they could afford the rent by simply selling soda and sandwiches, so they had to be selling something else in the back, behind the counter.
That said, with a depressed economy in small towns like Peekskill somehow this place was believable.
It reminded me of the small roadside diners you'll find on the back roads of Ohio—with a short white counter, slot machine of a cash register, a waiter-slash-cook who'll slap the butter on the Wonder bread, slip in a slice of American cheese and place it in on the griddle after you've ordered the only appealing thing on the one page menu—grilled cheese.
The only difference with the deli was that it offered the New York Post in a caddy by the front screen door.
Thus, I stepped in and promptly stepped out. No purchase necessary, not much to see here.
Scurrying back across the road to the station I started back up where this story began. I thought, even though this is simply the flip side of the stairs I usually go up, somehow they seem longer and steeper. Maybe it was because at this time of the morning, 7 o'clock, the sun don’t shine on this side of the staircase.
Nonetheless and allthemore, I proceeded; my neighbor confirming that, indeed, I wasn't dreaming that there is a difference, after all.
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