I live in a part of New York City one writer recently described as "not a people place." Less residential neighborhood than busy commuter hub, it has been particularly hard hit by the shift to work-from-home. Every month a restaurant that used to rely on workers buying lunch drops its gate for the last time: the fancy French-sounding bakery was the first to go, then several fastcasual outlets, the bar across the street, the Chinese takeout on the corner, eventually even pizza places and fastfood joints. Aside from the patisserie, I rarely frequented any of those establishments, yet I feel a twinge in my chest every time I see the padlocks. It's like heartache, except for a vendor. (Is there such a thing as mart-ache?) I mourn the staff, the signage, the squandered entrepreneurial energy.

Somehow, the local Indian restaurant has survived, staffed six days a week by a young guy named Ram. As our dining options narrowed, and his customer options narrowed, we began to see each other a lot. Ram now knows our order, that we will pick it up late and that we don't want flatware or napkins. But he also knows where we grew up, that we know a bit about cricket, that only one member of our family can tolerate spicy cooking. Recently he asked me for book recommendations, which either means business is even slower than I feared or we're getting to be pals. I want to ask him how he could possibly be earning enough from the restaurant when huge chains around him are getting the heck out of Dodge, but instead I just inquire if things are picking up. His answer is always the same: No, but we are hopeful they will soon. It's hard to know if I keep going there for the tikka masala, which is delicious, or the optimism, which is even more nourishing.

On one of my excursions to Ram, I met Kenny. I have probably walked past him at least 100 times in my life. He's the superintendent of a building nearby, and he lingers around his doorway a lot. I regret the many years I did not give Kenny much thought, because he's a lovely man with a beautiful spirit, but also because he's an unstoppable gossip and knows everything that happens on his turf. Were there suddenly a lot of cops on the street? Kenny knows why. Did a store recently close down? Kenny will tell you how much the rent was hiked. Is there an unsightly stain on the sidewalk? Kenny will have the gory details. Kenny and I now have the kind of arguments you can only have with people in the flesh, because on social media you'd be dismissed as a Nazi/ communist/journalist. Are bike lanes a scourge? Is the mayor a disaster? Does a local business have the right to put parking cones on the street outside its door? (He's wrong on all three.)

Unlike kenny, who patrols a defined patch of ground, Elijah can be found up and down the street, sitting on his electric scooter, usually smoking. He lives in the building next door but often sits under the scaffolding on ours. Not everyone welcomed his presence at first, but it didn't take long to figure out what he was doing, that he was another member of the tribe extroversia, bored in his apartment, looking for fellow humans with whom to mingle.

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