Vanguard Valentine's

It’s Valentines Day. It’s actually 75 minutes past Valentines Day. I don’t miss it, but I won’t forget it either. It was my first Valentines Day as a lonely New Yorker. There are 21 Million people living here and I wonder how many spent this day alone. A lot.

A lot of people have lost out on the companionship of this city. I’m not talking about the people anymore. I’m talking about New York. I’m talking about the history, the sites, the sounds, the energy and the view. People start viewing it like a post card and forget they are living in a real city.

I was feeling a little bit down tonight. I was going to meet up with my roommate and finish off a nice Bordeaux we have been waiting to crack open. It snowed in New York today. Several inches. I haven’t seen snow in New York yet. The streets were a bit of a mess and caused problems for parked cars stuck behind walls of plowed snow. My friend offered me a ride. I accepted hoping I wouldn’t have to shovel.

We had a little trouble getting the car out but after a little coaxing the snow finally gave in and let us out of our snowbox. We drove along talking about regular work stuff. Our usual complaints about people and every news story we hated. I followed with my usual sentiments towards New York—the transportation, the dirt, the cold. Mind you it has been snowing.

My friend finally interrupted me and said let me show you something. I was hesitant because I knew I had that Bordeaux and I forgot to mention the box of Godiva chocolates my mom sent me waiting at home. I said “fine but it better be quick.”

“You haven’t been down to the promenade have you?” He asked.

I always hear people mention it, like it just might be the greatest thing, but strangely only Brooklynites have.

“Yes, it’s like a secret. We want to keep it all to ourselves. It has the best view of the city,” he gushed.

Fine. I didn’t have a problem going. I just didn’t want to get out of the car. The promenade might be nice, but this wasn’t the night to be hanging out there. I mentioned it was snowing and it was also midnight, not exactly the conditions for waltzing around the promenade.

We made it to the upper level. I got out of the car and walked to the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell it was the sidewalk. It was covered in 6 inches of snow. I had to sort of guess. I had rain boots on, not SNOW boots, so my feet were freezing. I was looking down the whole way. It was cold out and the snow had turned to ice. It made for a rocky trip. I rounded the corner and was caught by a gust of wind. I had to button my hood on. I was so lost in the process of staying warm I had forgotten to look up.

“So, what do you think? Have you seen anything like it?” He asked.

My eyes quickly moved from the snow to the skyline. I was taken aback. Maybe I had seen it on postcards or in movies. Maybe someone once spoke of the New York skyscrapers or I had glanced at in a taxi or an airplane but it wasn’t what I saw tonight.

I was standing IN the postcard. I was IN the movie. It was the most amazing site. I felt like I could reach out and touch it. The empire state building, the Manhattan bridge, the Chrysler building, and if you looked closely the Statue of Liberty waving from the horizon. The sky lit up like a separate city. The Hudson was lapping up against the pier but even hid a city in it’s reflection.
It wasn’t cold to me anymore. It had unusual warmth to it now. It had a visceral glow that was inviting. I wanted to be apart of it. I wanted to get to know it. How can you be lonely in a city like this?

Living in a Crime Scene

Every night when I get off the train and walk down my quiet street to our apartment the least of my thoughts is terror --until I started living in a crime scene.

I awoke this morning to barrage of cell phone calls. It was around 10a.m. and I knew no one in their right mind would wake me before eleven.

Before I could check my messages or answer my roommate’s third attempt to get a hold of me there was a knock at my door.

I NEVER answer the door. I live in constant fear of my landlord. He doesn't know I live there along with like ten other people. Today was different though. He was out of town and I thought it might be our neighbor concerning the doorbells down stairs. They are broken.I swung the door open and was met by two gentlemen in long overcoats and NYPD badges. All I could think was… great we've really done it this time. Can they even arrest you for not being on the lease?

"This is detective so and so and I'm detective so and so with the NYPD. We don't mean to startle you" too late "But we just want to ask you a few questions regarding your neighbors."

I'm really wishing I had picked up my phone earlier.

"Okay, I don't know them, but okay," I said.

"Are you aware of what happened last night," They asked.

"No...I was asleep," I said. "What happened." My mouth was gaping.

"Did you hear any noise or see anything suspicious here last night through early this morning?" They asked.

"No...why what happened?" I asked starting to worry.

"Mam...did you see any suspicious cars parked outside your door lastnight?" They asked.

"Uh ..No excuse me what happened?" I asked.

"We can't release that at this time, but if you can think of any thing further please come and let us know."

Are they kidding? They are just going to leave me hanging here. Was there a shooting, a stabbing, was I in immidiate danger, forget immidiate. Was I EVER in danger? Are they going to actually act like.."good morning, how do you like your coffee, did you know you might be living next to a killer."

I closed the door and ran to the window. Cops lined the street. There was yellow caution tape marking off our building from the rest of the world, orange markers, sat trucks, reporters, cameramen, photographers.I took a moment and closed the shutters. Am I dreaming?

I grabbed my phone and dialed numbers. No answer. Dialed other numbers. Icouldn't think. What the hell? I called myself. I knew some kind of answer would lie in my voicemail.

"Damnit Lindy answer your phone.” It was my roommate. “I know you’re there. Look something’s up. There are cops everywhere, reporters… the whole nine. I was on my way to work this morning and I had to be escorted to the end of the block. Call me.”

I went back to the window and pushed the glass up. I squeezed my head up against the screen in hopes of catching any lingering conversation below. No luck. It didn’t produce any new information. I knew I had to go down there.

I’m a reporter. This would be easy. I could at the least pry something out of the other news junkies. People talk at crime scenes. It’s how you get leads. I threw on my coat and a fresh coat of lipstick and left my apartment. I descended my steps to our landing and paused.

I’m not sure why I hesitated. I wanted to think of some good questions to ask people. I was wondering if other neighbors had said anything. I wanted to know what police were telling the reporters. Was there a press conference? Should I look for our Sat truck and if I saw anyone from our newsroom should I say hi? What if they think I know details? Should I pretend like I know nothing? Should I show the officers my press pass? I was still standing at the door. I shook myself out of it and turned the knob.

Clicking of camera shutters was all I heard next. There were reporters yelling over reporters tuning each other out. “Did you know your neighbor?” “Did you hear gunshots?” “How did you find out?” “Have you seen the car?” “What was your reaction?” “Can you tell us the last time you saw Riviera?” Detectives turned. On-lookers stopped. I was standing on the podium of the crime scene poised for a news conference. My mind went blank.

I had to get out of there.

I ducked under the yellow tape and faintly said, “I don’t know anything.” I scampered down the block. One reporter actually followed me to the next avenue. I finally had to tell him, “Look, that’s enough. I don’t know anything.”

My dry cleaner sits at the end of my street. I knew going in there was a poor excuse for hiding but at this point I needed a little comforting.

“Sarita, como estas? Que Sabes?” my dry cleaning lady asked.

She is this short fiery Dominican lady with a thick accent and a big heart. I would be lying if I said she only knew people by name. She could tell you their name, their address and what shirt they wore to church on Sunday. Lets just say she kept her ear to the ground all day.

“Can you be-live” she said.

“No actually I can’t? I can’t believe anything because I don’t know anything.” I said.

So, there I was in my dry cleaners about a hundred yards from the crime scene. A hundred yards from my apartment listening to my dry cleaner tell me the whole story.

An unmarked police car with three undercover cops stopped two men this morning a few blocks away. The driver opened fire and shot one of the policemen three times. Once in the neck. The other policemen then fired 13 times. The suspects and the car sucessfully fled the scene.

A short while later the vehicle in question was spotted. Police pulled the car over.

The driver-- a NYPD police woman.

The police escorted her to her Apartment. My building.

Waiting there was her husband, suspected shooter, and the other suspect.

Officers deployed to the scene. Helicopters circled the sky. NYPD shut down the whole block. No one in. No one out. Detectives questioned everyone. They set up orange markers up and down the street from broken glass to shell casings.

All of the policewoman’s weapons were quickly accounted for. But when it came to the weapon of interest it was missing. The search continued behind our building. It’s an unattended yard between two brownstones overgrown and messy. Although there are no fruit trees back there the search did not prove fruitless. Stashed under some knee-high weeds—A gun.

The three were taken into custody and escorted to the precinct. Melendez-Rivera, who was suspended from duty, was charged with obstructing governmental administration and unlawful possession of marijuana. Her 31-year-old husband was also charged with reckless endangerment, defacing a firearm, tampering with evidence, menacing and criminal possession of marijuana, according to police.

I also found out that they are known crack dealers in the neighborhood but that is all speculation.

Enough speculation to make me think twice before coming up the steps of the platform.

So, I’m not sure what was going through my head when I came out of the trains tonight. I live in New York. It’s what you can expect. But with headlines like “Hail Of Gunfire Blankets Park Slope With Bullet Casings” Its hard not to be skiddish.

I woke up in a crime scene and now I’m scared.

Trash Causes Crash

A bizarre accident in Cape Cod Saturday (02/10), where police say trash caused the crash.
Police in West Yarmouth say there was so much trash in 53-year-old Ann Ann Biglan's Ford Focus that some of it fell onto the gas and brake pedals causing her to lose control.

While losing control, Biglan backed out speeding from a post office parking space, over the curb and across a freeway.

She then hit a Ford Explorer and backed over another sidewalk before finally crashing into a flowerpot in a gas station's parking lot.

Biglan was charged with negligent and impeded operation of a motor vehicle, failure to use care in backing, and operating with a rejected safety inspection sticker.