Summary

The author, Remington Write, reflects on the comfort and intrigue of living in close quarters with others in a densely populated city, despite the occasional nuisances and the current uncertainties of the world.

Abstract

In the essay "Stacks of Boxes," Remington Write delves into the interconnectedness of urban life, where living in close proximity to others within a city's "stacks of boxes" brings a sense of community and shared humanity. The author expresses a preference for the audible signs of life from neighbors, such as the sounds of people upstairs or the arguments downstairs, over solitude. The piece touches on the recent return of people to offices as a sign of normalcy, while also acknowledging the weariness and odd behaviors that the past years have brought. Write cherishes the diversity of experiences within the city, from the mundane to the extraordinary, and emphasizes the importance of being surrounded by fellow city dwellers, even with the challenges that come with it.

Opinions

The author enjoys the sense of connection that comes from living in a city where people are in close proximity, hearing their daily lives through shared walls and floors.
There is an acceptance of the quirks and disturbances that come with urban living, such as neighbors converting their space into a recording studio, as part of the city's vibrant tapestry.
The essay conveys a mix of amusement and annoyance regarding the various sounds from neighbors, including their intimate moments and arguments.
The author has a clear preference for remote work over returning to the office, citing safety concerns amidst the ongoing global issues.
There is a recognition of the stress and odd behavior exhibited by some city residents, as evidenced by an encounter with a young man asking for money for malt liquor.
Despite the challenges, the author expresses a strong attachment to city life, valuing the shared experiences and the sense of belonging it provides.
The piece ends with a subtle call to action, inviting readers to support the author's work on Medium through a membership, which in turn supports writers like Remington Write.

Photo Credits — AleXander Hirka / Used with permission

Stacks of Boxes

Filled with people

Maybe your box is flat on the ground with no other box under it and none above it. Good for you if that’s what you want.

Not me.

There’s a box above me and four more under me. Several boxes, in fact. I like it this way. I like knowing there are people living their lives in their boxes above me and underneath me and all around me. It gives me great pleasure to wonder what they’re up to at any given moment during the day or night. Ok, so I wasn’t thrilled when the people in the box next to mine tried to turn their bedroom into a recording studio. We had words.

They’re gone but I’m still here in my series of connected boxes.

I do like hearing the people upstairs doin’ it. They aren’t particularly loud about it but I can tell what they’re doing up there and I approve. It’s not so great hearing the people downstairs arguing and, oh brother, does that new baby across the air shaft have a set of lungs. Still, it’s comforting to be sandwiched in with my fellow humans living our lives and doing the ordinary daily things we keep taking for granted (while the whole world around us shrieks at us to wake TF up and stop doing that).

It comforts me to live surrounded by stacks of boxes filled with people.

Riding an M7 bus up 6th Avenue earlier I could see people moving around in boxes that until recently had been empty. Do I think it’s safe to be going back to the office now? Oh, HELL, no. Not me, Babycakes, no sireee. I’m staying at my laptop in the bedroom, thankyouverymuch. But seeing not just one or two lone figures in those midtown windows but tens and twenties of them was reassuring in that old human way.

I like my solitude and have little desire to actually go out and mingle with all those people. Wayyyy too many of them are showing signs of breaking under the pressure of the past couple of years (yes, I’m talking to you, the young man who came up to me in the drugstore earlier and flatly asked for $20 for malt liquor…you can’t have been surprised that I ignored you).

Like I said, we’re all a bit rinsed these days.

But I wouldn’t be anywhere else but in a densely crowded city with millions of my fellow sufferers and glad-handers. Give me all these wonderful stacks of boxes filled with people making stupid mistakes and glorious music. I’ll even take those little metal boxes on the street that mean the movies are being made again.

We all live in boxes now. Some are quite grand and nicely furnished. Some aren’t. We peer out the windows of our boxes and wonder — as I did today — WTH those helicopters were doing overhead for so long. Turns out someone who’s a bit more threadbare than usual was tooling around Central Park setting fires.

They don’t know who — yet — but whoever he was (damn straight I’m gender-profiling like crazy here; deal with it) if he’s lucky he’s in a box tonight. If not, he probably wishes he was.

The wind has really picked up out there. I hope he’s safely tucked away in a box with someone who cares about him.

And without matches.

You’re here. I’m here. Here’s what you can do to keep me here.

Join Medium with my referral link - Remington Write

As a Medium member, a portion of your membership fee goes to writers you read, and you get full access to every story…

tlr31.medium.com