| There is something about the smell of a New York City apartment building which can not be experienced anywhere else. As a child, I used to look forward to the times when my family would visit my aunt and grandfather in Flushing, New York. Even though they lived in Queens, one of the outer boroughs, and not Manhattan, to me it was the big city compared to the neighborhoods of Long Island. When we arrived, my father would hold open the heavy glass doors leading into the lobby area of the brown brick apartment building. Once inside, I was immediately struck by the strong aroma of food and cooking, a fantastic blend of ethnic aromas. Underneath was the smell of layer upon layer of heavy enamel paint covering the dark green and grey steel doors leading into each apartment, stairway, |
and elevator.
These were the smells of life and people living close together and sharing space, and coming and going.
There were a lot of echoes in an apartment building that I was not used to hearing at our own home built upon a
good sized lot with a green grass yards. Upon entering Aunt Mary's floor, we could hear footsteps down the hall.
When a door in Apartment 2 D closed and the locks snapped shut, a dull thud would ricochet down through the tiled,
carpetless corridor to 17 D where we were standing. I heard the ding of the elevators, the whoosh of cars outside,
distant sirens, voices on top of muffled voices but most of all I remember the smell. It’s the smell that brings back
memories of my Grandfather Papu and Aunt Mary and the little man who lived in the apartment underneath them who
did not like to hear footsteps from above.
After knocking on the heavily-painted forest green door, a few seconds passed. A flicker of light passed behind the
peep hole glass; a look, just to make sure, and we were let in. The aroma of a rich Greek meal burst into the
hallway—garlic and onion and frying and spices—and its presence invited us in like a warm handshake.
My grandfather was always properly dressed in a starched white shirt and a dark thin tie. His suit pants were tailored,
creased, and his black belt kept shiny, sitting above his waistline. He wore finely trimmed glasses and liked to have
his grandchildren visit him in his apartment and share his time with his oldest daughter and son in law.
Aunt Mary would make a big fuss about everybody arriving, repeating our first names over and over again. We were
led into the kitchen, the smallest but coziest room in the house. It was here that we sat at the linoleum-topped, 1950s-
style table and were able to look down at the street 11 stories below. Besides the times we visited Queens, the
highest above ground level the children in my family had been was exactly 13 steps to the second floor of our center-
hall Colonial. To be so high up was a real thrill to my brother and me. Our baby sister Kathy did not notice.
These were the smells of life and people living close together and sharing space, and coming and going.
There were a lot of echoes in an apartment building that I was not used to hearing at our own home built upon a
good sized lot with a green grass yards. Upon entering Aunt Mary's floor, we could hear footsteps down the hall.
When a door in Apartment 2 D closed and the locks snapped shut, a dull thud would ricochet down through the tiled,
carpetless corridor to 17 D where we were standing. I heard the ding of the elevators, the whoosh of cars outside,
distant sirens, voices on top of muffled voices but most of all I remember the smell. It’s the smell that brings back
memories of my Grandfather Papu and Aunt Mary and the little man who lived in the apartment underneath them who
did not like to hear footsteps from above.
After knocking on the heavily-painted forest green door, a few seconds passed. A flicker of light passed behind the
peep hole glass; a look, just to make sure, and we were let in. The aroma of a rich Greek meal burst into the
hallway—garlic and onion and frying and spices—and its presence invited us in like a warm handshake.
My grandfather was always properly dressed in a starched white shirt and a dark thin tie. His suit pants were tailored,
creased, and his black belt kept shiny, sitting above his waistline. He wore finely trimmed glasses and liked to have
his grandchildren visit him in his apartment and share his time with his oldest daughter and son in law.
Aunt Mary would make a big fuss about everybody arriving, repeating our first names over and over again. We were
led into the kitchen, the smallest but coziest room in the house. It was here that we sat at the linoleum-topped, 1950s-
style table and were able to look down at the street 11 stories below. Besides the times we visited Queens, the
highest above ground level the children in my family had been was exactly 13 steps to the second floor of our center-
hall Colonial. To be so high up was a real thrill to my brother and me. Our baby sister Kathy did not notice.
| Aunt Mary's Apartment |
by Michael Domino
Copyright © 2007, 2008 by Michael Domino
| Short Stories Page 1 2 |
Denis Proulx / Shangri-La Studio