An ode to Crazy Ron.
My first apartment in New York was a ground-floor studio at 69 First Avenue, that sat nestled behind a delicious mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant from which I would order copious amounts of burritos. The apartment had some personality, with its blue countertops and yellow tiles, and double (non-working) fireplaces, which I painted green. But certainly the most memorable thing about the place was my neighbor, Crazy Ron.
I visited the old stomping ground this afternoon, as I am wont to do when struck with a burrito craving, and was catching up with the guy who owns the Mexican place, and naturally the topic of Crazy Ron came up. (When I lived in the building, I was pretty much known as the one who lived across the hall from the crazy guy.) I asked if Ron was still living in the building, and was told he passed away last summer.
Oh, Crazy Ron.
Crazy Ron was a Liverpudlian who had lived in the building since before I was born. He was round and bald, with a thick accent, and his apartment, the only other one on the ground floor, was a rent-controlled duplex which I'm sure he paid about $5 a month for.
There are many, many stories I could relate about Crazy Ron, but I'll share two here that typify the unique joys and occasional irritation of living across the hall from a stereotypically crazy New York neighbor. (I should preface these stories by saying that I had/have nothing but occasionally-annoyed affection for Crazy Ron, who, for all his outlandishness, was usually kind and always harmless.)
For some reason, I was prone to throwing rather happenin' parties in my little studio apartment, packing them with so many people that the place felt like a crowded dance club on a Saturday night. At about midnight during one of these parties, there's a deafening bang on the door, which I open, and am greeted by Crazy Ron. The music stops. Ron screams at the top of his lungs that if we don't shut the party down, he'll call the police.
Now, I had known Crazy Ron for some time at this point, and I knew that there was no reason to be scared. I knew that Ron had a (sometimes debilitating) penchant for the sauce, so, without skipping a beat, I said, "I'm so sorry, Ron. Would you like to come in for a drink?" And just like that, Ron dropped his rage-filled arms, smiled, and said, "Sure!"
And right on cue, the music went back on, the conversations started back up, and Ron spent the next hour or so being passed from friend to friend, with whom he chattered on about Vietnam, dirty bombs, and the way the world was before we were born.
Here's a photo of Crazy Ron, with my friend David, at that party:
There was only one occasion where Crazy Ron crossed some sort of Crazy-But-Not-Too-Crazy line. It started one night where I was meeting with my friend Courtney at the apartment. Ron knocked on the door and asked if he could borrow five dollars to buy a burrito. Now, I had lent Ron, like, twenty bucks at one point before, which he did pay me back in full, but I wasn't about to become an ATM, so I declined. Ron left without any kind of commotion, and I didn't think anything of it.
About 2am that morning, I was awoken by the sound of the phone ringing. Not really awake at all, I didn't realize it was the phone until the answering machine kicked in, and I heard Crazy Ron muttering on the other end.
"I can't believe you wouldn't lend me $5 for a burrito! Neighbors help each other. If you ever need help, I'm not helping you!"
Click.
Oh, Crazy Ron, I thought. And went back to sleep.
The next night, the phone started ringing at about 3am. The answering machine started clicking:
"I can't believe you wouldn't lend me $5 for a burrito! Neighbors help each other! Don't even think about asking me for help if you ever need it. I'm not gonna help you!"
Click.
The next morning, I contacted the landlord, and soon, Ron was back to his charmingly, non-invasively crazy self.
The thing about having the crazy New York neighbor is that it's equal parts hilarity and sadness. The zany, cocktail party-story craziness is usually just a veneer for some deeper, darker crazy. In the case of Crazy Ron, it was alcoholism, which I was certainly aware of, but didn't realize was so serious until the appearance, one day late into my tenure at 69 First Avenue, of a female friend/social worker, who was standing outside the door to Ron's apartment pleading for him to open the door, as he raged, loud and drunkenly, inside.
That's not to say that Ron's crazy was completely the result of the booze. I had plenty of crazy sober moments with Ron that I cherish because of their sheer, earnest wackiness.
One evening, there's a knock on the door. It's Ron.
"You've inspired me," he says.
"Oh. Really?" I say.
"I made you this."
He hands me a piece of paper, painted orange with watercolor and then covered -- and I mean covered -- with geometric shapes and squiggles drawn in magic marker. It's a little piece of art.
"Wow, thanks!" I say. And I do mean it.
Ron nods and goes back into his apartment.
I look at my gift and turn it over. On the back is scrawled, 'To Adam, From your neighbor Ron."
I visited the old stomping ground this afternoon, as I am wont to do when struck with a burrito craving, and was catching up with the guy who owns the Mexican place, and naturally the topic of Crazy Ron came up. (When I lived in the building, I was pretty much known as the one who lived across the hall from the crazy guy.) I asked if Ron was still living in the building, and was told he passed away last summer.
Oh, Crazy Ron.
Crazy Ron was a Liverpudlian who had lived in the building since before I was born. He was round and bald, with a thick accent, and his apartment, the only other one on the ground floor, was a rent-controlled duplex which I'm sure he paid about $5 a month for.
There are many, many stories I could relate about Crazy Ron, but I'll share two here that typify the unique joys and occasional irritation of living across the hall from a stereotypically crazy New York neighbor. (I should preface these stories by saying that I had/have nothing but occasionally-annoyed affection for Crazy Ron, who, for all his outlandishness, was usually kind and always harmless.)
For some reason, I was prone to throwing rather happenin' parties in my little studio apartment, packing them with so many people that the place felt like a crowded dance club on a Saturday night. At about midnight during one of these parties, there's a deafening bang on the door, which I open, and am greeted by Crazy Ron. The music stops. Ron screams at the top of his lungs that if we don't shut the party down, he'll call the police.
Now, I had known Crazy Ron for some time at this point, and I knew that there was no reason to be scared. I knew that Ron had a (sometimes debilitating) penchant for the sauce, so, without skipping a beat, I said, "I'm so sorry, Ron. Would you like to come in for a drink?" And just like that, Ron dropped his rage-filled arms, smiled, and said, "Sure!"
And right on cue, the music went back on, the conversations started back up, and Ron spent the next hour or so being passed from friend to friend, with whom he chattered on about Vietnam, dirty bombs, and the way the world was before we were born.
Here's a photo of Crazy Ron, with my friend David, at that party:
There was only one occasion where Crazy Ron crossed some sort of Crazy-But-Not-Too-Crazy line. It started one night where I was meeting with my friend Courtney at the apartment. Ron knocked on the door and asked if he could borrow five dollars to buy a burrito. Now, I had lent Ron, like, twenty bucks at one point before, which he did pay me back in full, but I wasn't about to become an ATM, so I declined. Ron left without any kind of commotion, and I didn't think anything of it.
About 2am that morning, I was awoken by the sound of the phone ringing. Not really awake at all, I didn't realize it was the phone until the answering machine kicked in, and I heard Crazy Ron muttering on the other end.
"I can't believe you wouldn't lend me $5 for a burrito! Neighbors help each other. If you ever need help, I'm not helping you!"
Click.
Oh, Crazy Ron, I thought. And went back to sleep.
The next night, the phone started ringing at about 3am. The answering machine started clicking:
"I can't believe you wouldn't lend me $5 for a burrito! Neighbors help each other! Don't even think about asking me for help if you ever need it. I'm not gonna help you!"
Click.
The next morning, I contacted the landlord, and soon, Ron was back to his charmingly, non-invasively crazy self.
The thing about having the crazy New York neighbor is that it's equal parts hilarity and sadness. The zany, cocktail party-story craziness is usually just a veneer for some deeper, darker crazy. In the case of Crazy Ron, it was alcoholism, which I was certainly aware of, but didn't realize was so serious until the appearance, one day late into my tenure at 69 First Avenue, of a female friend/social worker, who was standing outside the door to Ron's apartment pleading for him to open the door, as he raged, loud and drunkenly, inside.
That's not to say that Ron's crazy was completely the result of the booze. I had plenty of crazy sober moments with Ron that I cherish because of their sheer, earnest wackiness.
One evening, there's a knock on the door. It's Ron.
"You've inspired me," he says.
"Oh. Really?" I say.
"I made you this."
He hands me a piece of paper, painted orange with watercolor and then covered -- and I mean covered -- with geometric shapes and squiggles drawn in magic marker. It's a little piece of art.
"Wow, thanks!" I say. And I do mean it.
Ron nods and goes back into his apartment.
I look at my gift and turn it over. On the back is scrawled, 'To Adam, From your neighbor Ron."
posted by Adam at 8:00 PM
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