Roof Rites

Last summer, my roof taught me a powerful lesson about citizenship.

One reason Park Slope is so popular with young parents is that it offers a dramatic view of exactly what we've given up: Manhattan. Some are blessed with northern or western windows that frame the Woolworth, the Met Life, and the place where the Trade Center used to be. Others heads upstairs, beer, cigarettes, and cell phone in hand, and enjoy the sunset amid sun-faded lighter fluid bottles, stray lumber, and rusted chicken wire.

Some are foiled in their view of the mother island by an obstruction—a tree or a building—and must take to a neighboring rooftop to contemplate the metropolis. Not us. Our neighbors, yes. On our block, it so happens that only our apartment offers a clear vantage point.

Mind you, this isn't the sturdiest roof in the world. In bad need of resurfacing, the silvercoat gives under one's feet like a slack trampoline. Add to this the fact that our baby's room lies exactly beneath the path from the crossing to the parapet, and you begin to see the issue.

It wasn't so bad during the wintry months. But come spring, like fauns over a brook, they jumped over the dividing wall and thumped their way across our lives. Incensed at the gall, I would expel the interlopers as they came. If they were a nice young couple, I would be gentle; if a bunch of punk kids, I'd threaten to call the cops, then spend the rest of the evening in a fog of paranoia at the prospect of retaliation.

And then came the Fourth of July, and everything changed.

I remember the evening well: we had a dinner party, baby back ribs, corn on the cob, and cupcakes frosted red, white, and blue. It had been a hot day, and the breeze was warm on our legs when we went upstairs to await the fireworks. The newspaper had said nine o'clock; around a quarter till, we began to hear other voices drawing near. I turned and watched them arrive in twos, threes, and fours, my neighbors newly risen from their own Independence Day feasts, their faces bright to the horizon.

Softly I made the rounds, saying only that there was a baby asleep downstairs, so tread lightly. I felt instinctively that I should tread lightly myself, in the spirit of the occasion, rather than wielding my property rights against my fellow citizens.

With Manhattan still quiet at a quarter past nine, Jersey City lit its fuse and produced a quite respectable display, nice continuity, a pleasing rhythm. It ran its course, and then, just as its climax was building—a salvo from Manhattan's South Street Seaport stole Jersey's thunder in the most literal sense.

On either side of me stood neighbors of all colors and creeds, their faces equally lit by liberty's lightning in the harbor. The explosions punctuated a play-by-play by a child so precocious I could hardly resist tousling him within an inch of his life.

Like the chastened Grinch on Christmas, I felt my wizened heart relax and grow large. Here in this city of chimneys, water tanks, and satellite dishes, where outside space was rationed by the square foot for a fortunate few, who was I to deny my compatriots on this of all nights? After all, what could be more New York than a rooftop, and what could be more American than New Yorkers on a rooftop?

It was then that I realized my roof was a precious resource, every bit as much a part of our American heritage as El Capitan or the Everglades, and that it was my responsibility to steward it as such for the common good. No longer would I chase people off, but rather welcome them with the open arms of a lighthouse keeper, and show them to the best possible spot for the given time of day. I'd help them see exactly where Lower Manhattan overlapped Jersey City, and tell them the names of the buildings before them.

Word of my patriotic hospitality grew, and as I redoubled my efforts to serve the republic, the roof soon became quite an expensive proposition. Between the ADA-compliant comfort station, the interpretive theater, and the markers for the self-guided tour, I was quickly several thousand dollars out of pocket. As a tradesman, I'm hardly wealthy, and I had to move quickly to recoup my losses. Fortunately, or so I thought, I was able to line up a corporate sponsor.

As it happened, word of the deal leaked prematurely, and before a contract could be signed, we were mired in controversy. My family drew hostile glares in the farmer's market and critical jibes on the Park Slope Parents list. Anonymous letters stapled to telephone poles alleged billboards and mineral exploitation.

The phone was ringing off the hook. A cellular company wanted to put up a tower, the Seventh Avenue Merchant's Association wanted to install a helipad, Burning Man sued to relocate to the site, there were rumors of a kiddy pool. I swore public access would not be curtailed under any scenario, but it was no use. We couldn't sleep for the sound of candlelit vigils, and the media camped out front elicited a constant chorus of horns from the traffic on Eighth.

A number of groups made common cause and planned a massive rally for Labor Day, the March on Washington and Woodstock rolled into one. Al Sharpton was there, not for the first time, as were Alec Baldwin and Al Goldstein. As the rally reached its peak, the crowd thumped its feet in unison to a chant led by that guy from Rage Against the Machine. Somewhere I heard a pop, and before I could raise my arms, the whole thing collapsed, and the entire gathering poured down the hall, out the door, and down the stairs to the sidewalk like so many gumballs.

The hole where the roof had been became hallowed ground, a monument to America's aspirations and a shrine to its fallen. Declared Forever Wild, the place is now off-limits to all forever. Unfortunately, that includes my family. If you know of a three bedroom … two baths would be great, but we can live with one.