New York City is all about relationships. But usually of the non-romantic variety. If you live in a neighborhood long enough, you develop a pretty intimate rapport with the people at your local drycleaners, nail salon, and even deli. Yes, I knew I had a close relationship with my deli guy when I walked in on a weekday and he said to me, “Wow, you’re sober today.”

I need to move.

These are the people that I interact with on a regular basis. These people shape my life, make my day, and help me realize that capitalism and its consequences of social stratification are indeed alive and well in New York City.

The Bus Dispatcher: He’s the guy that stands on the street corner, rain or shine, and makes sure you get on the bus and that the buses leave on time. I have a pretty intimate relationship with my bus dispatcher because he used to say things like “yowza” when I’d get on the bus. I guess some people would take that as a compliment…IF WE LIVED IN THE FIFTIES. So I filed a complaint to MTA. Um, yeah, and he doesn’t say that to me anymore and now he holds the bus for me when he sees me running across the street. See? Only in New York can you go from harassor/harassee to bus friends.

The Bus Driver: I’ve been riding the same bus line for about five years now so I’ve gotten to know most of the regular drivers. This comes in handy when I realize my metro card doesn’t have any money left and ask the driver, “Can I just pay extra next time?” Then he nods his head and gives me a look that says, “Bitch is too cheap to buy an unlimited card.”

The Deli Guy: I usually come here after work and get my dinner for the evening. See, in the suburbs, single women eat tv dinners. In Manhattan, single women eat wraps. Of if you’re me, you eat a wrap and a box of ferrero rochers. Shit is good! Anyway, my deli guy calls me “mami” and I call him Erik Estrada because he’s tan and from the Southern Hemisphere. Okay, I don’t call him Erik Estrada. Not to his face at least. I once made the mistake of telling him I was from Miami and now he likes to speak Spanish to me when I come in which I just find incredibly frustrating because at that point in the day I am just too tired to speak let alone speak three words of a language I can barely remember. Yeah, I am such an asshole. Erik Estrada is probably just trying to find a moment of entertainment in the bleakness of his 20 hour shift and I am too lazy to humor him and say “gracias”. Immigrant labor is so depressing.

The Bagel Delivery Guy: I usually call my bagel place on Sundays, when I am broke and can only afford like a bagel with butter and a coke. My bagel delivery guy answers the phone and he sounds like he has cerebral palsy but when he shows up to my door he is like this hot Asian hipster sporting Vans. I always forget he is hot and end up greeting him at the door in an oversized shirt with some kind of food stain. Note to self: When greeting the Bagel Delivery Guy at the door, make sure to wear pants.

The Neighbors: I have actually never seen the people that live upstairs but I HEAR them all the time. Especially at night. I don’t know how many people actually live there but they sound like there are about ten of them. I call one of them American Idol. He is always singing. Especially in the shower. He must take like ten showers during the course of one night because I can hear the water running and him singing some Kelly Clarkson song. Oh my goodness, when Dream Girls came out he would not stop singing “And…I…am…TELLING YOUUUUUUUU…”

I once had to take a broom and bang it on the ceiling because he was singing in the middle of the night and I couldn’t fall asleep. Yes, I am 28 going on 60.

And then there’s another woman in that apartment who I call “Big Mama’s House” because I can hear her laughing in the middle of the night like she’s a character in a Martin Lawrence movie. I don’t know what the hell can be so funny at one in the morning on a Monday night but Big Mama’s House sure can find something to cackle about. Her laugh travels through the pipes and right into my ear drums.

Between American Idol singing in the shower and Big Mama’s House laughing about nothing, sometimes I find it very hard to sleep at night.

But sometimes, especially when my roommate is out of town, I can’t fall asleep because I can’t stop thinking about the zombies that are going to attack me from under my bed, so I try to think about all the people in my neighborhood who are probably still up because they have to work the late shift in order to make money for their remittances to Mexico so that their children can get vaccinated and they can afford cable television and feed all their relatives and cattle. And I feel better knowing that they are still out there. And I even find comfort in American Idol’s late night rendition of Toni Braxton’s “Unbreak my heart”.

In New York, you are never really alone. Sometimes it is nice knowing that there will always be people around you.

Unless they are all zombies…in which case I am screwed.