I’M BUYING UP CLEVELAND
I grew up in Manhattan next-door to where John Lennon was killed. My parents ran an art gallery. They still do. They have a place in Switzerland and New York. I ran the Switzerland office for a while.
But I’m tired of the whole arts scene. I want out. I’m 30. I want to hang around with oil men, real estate guys and cowboys. Men who have never read the New York Times, particularly the Style section.
In college, at Kenyon, I had a roommate, Schwecky from Cleveland. I visited Cleveland a couple times with him and fell in love with the place. People in Cleveland have lawns and don’t pay $3000/month for a one-bedroom.
I have a one-bedroom in Cleveland Heights for $1200. Tricked out too. Marble countertops, dishwasher. I’m going to use my nest egg (courtesy of my old man) to buy up Cleveland. I can buy Cleveland’s whole East Side, I figure, for what my parents’ Central Park West condo goes for. But my dad wants me to stay in New York. No thanks. One question, Pops: what can I buy in New York for 1.5 million? Gornisht!
I’m hanging around with hustlers in Cleveland and loving it. This town – Cleveland’s East Side at least – is just old Jews, and when these boomers hear I’m from New York, they say, “I have a daughter in Brooklyn for you!” I groan. Those Brooklyn girls are trying to get jobs with my folks at the art gallery.
I’ve made some errors here in Cleveland, like an old Jew had me over for dinner and quizzed me on a couple things, and I guessed a milk chute is “maybe for the seltzer delivery,” and I didn’t know what treelawn meant.
I don’t think I’m ever leaving Cleveland. Cleveland Heights — where I live — is like Hoboken. Nice. Urban. But not too urban.
When I’m with my folks in the city, just going down to the deli for a sandwich is a major proposition. The crowd, the line, the elevator. I got mugged once. Eighth grade. Some kids pushed me over and took my book bag.
I don’t walk much in Cleveland. The roads here are bare — empty. There is infrastructure here for twice as many people as there are people. These are the wheels I’m going to buy:

fiction

1 comment
I have a friend, a former fellow teacher at Sony, who lived next to the Dakota (John Lennon’s pad) with her daughter and banker husband. I visited once –they didn’t have a view of Central Park, which dropped them down a notch on the status scale, but they could see the Dakota.
In Barberton we called it a Devil’s strip, not treelawn.
I’m always impressed by how little traffic you have in your neighborhood — you live in a rural retreat compared to almost anywhere in Tokyo.
Happy Holidays!
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