We all lived on 85th Street between Central Park West and Columbus Avenue. Myself and ‘the mayor’ for years in separate apartments on the ground floor of the same brownstone. ‘The neighbor,’ somewhere down the block. The mayor was so-called because he acted as concierge, watchdog, and advisor for the entire block collecting packages, keeping an eye out for crime, and giving unsolicited advice to anyone who would listen. The neighbor is so-called because I never bothered to get his name. The huz will come later.

“The mayor’s father must have been a doctor,” commented the neighbor one afternoon. “He doesn’t work, and obviously lives on a trust fund.” Perhaps the neighbor was right at least about one thing. The mayor had money enough to afford Nikon cameras, rolls of film and to have his glossy photos blown-up in photo labs.

The mayor spent his days shooting nature, not animals but rather the mangled roots and deep, dark hollows of trees. For hours he’d stand outside our building stopping passersby to show them his pictures. “This is Feodor,” he’d say pointing to his photo of a dried tree stump on top of a tangle of roots whose markings appeared to have multiple eyes. 

When our landlord announced he’d be renovating our building, he enticed both the mayor and myself to move into another one of his brownstones. The promise of an actual bathroom instead of a tub in the kitchen (which is what I had), sold me despite double the rent for the same square footage, and a fourth-floor walk-up. The mayor had already relocated to the same building where he was downsized, I’m sure against his desire, into a one-room, first floor space.  

The mayor’s parrot, Lola (renamed Lalo when discovered it was a boy), no longer had the garden apartment it was accustomed to and so, in good weather, The mayor allowed Lalo to sit in the tree just outside our new building where he menaced every pedestrian with an evil eye and some sharp-beaked squawks. 

“I hope that parrot dies before the mayor,” the neighbor said. “If it doesn’t, who will take care of it? They live a long time, ya’ know.” I didn’t know, but when Lalo finally did pass, even the mayor seemed relieved. 

The years flew by. The mayor was approaching eighty, and I, forty. Rents went skyrocketing, and salaries were going to hell. I married, and ‘the huz’ (husband) moved in. One day, a note appeared on the mayor’s door, “I’m in the hospital. Do not knock.”  And so we didn’t. However, when the huz passed by, the mayor stuck his head out and asked if he might buy a lottery ticket. The huz obliged and promptly delivered said ticket to the mayor. 

Three days later, I passed by the mayor’s door. It was open. There were two cops inside. I peeked in, and there was the mayor dressed impeccably as usual with his heels on the floor and his upper back on the edge of his bed. He was stiff as a board. He had died that morning while zipping his pants. If there were family members in his life, none showed.

And so the neighbor took it upon himself to gather the mayor’s photos and collect money for a memorial. The huz and I contributed what we could. However, the memorial never happened. The multi-million dollar lottery was held that weekend, but the mayor’s ticket was nowhere to be found. And the neighbor very quickly disappeared.

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.