Peter

+ Greenlight comix conversation

Two months after my neighbor Peter died from a heart attack in his apartment, I heard his voice in the downstairs lobby. It took a few minutes to realize that his “voice” was coming from the spooky sound the main entrance door made when it opened and closed. Peter was asking about something I couldn't quite make out.

I'm not a religious man like how Peter was of the Catholic faith but he never shoved his persuasion down my throat. I don't necessarily believe in resurrection but I might consider myself somewhat spiritual due to the many superhero comic books I've read and written and drawn. So I'm open to most anything.

Peter lived with his mother where he was born his entire life. He was supposed to die on 9/11 but skipped work that day at the World Trade Center and was gifted another 22-years. When his mother died he was left all alone with the exception of excursions with men half his age or younger. It wasn't that his proclivities was much of a secret. It's that he didn't quite embrace it in a proud way like people do today. Not that any of it was any of my business. But the neighborhood was old school Italian, as was he, and a little bit macho. His tribe probably frowned on Peter's disposition.

Albeit short and plump, Peter presented tough but he always had a twinkle in his eye. He loved trouble. Bathed in gossip and was an awful snoop. He was the self-proclaimed mayor of our modest building. I tried my best to flex empathy, give context to his rants and help squash any beefs he had with adjacent tenants, but I took none of his guff. I was The Batman to his Penguin.

When I first moved from my native Manhattan to Brooklyn 25-years ago, the first thing I noticed was how loud quiet can be. My apartment faces the street and I could hear squirrels leaping between trees and footsteps three floors below. It kept me up at night. Sometimes I'd hear the metal lids of our garbage cans around 2am and I'd poke my head out of my fire escape window to catch Peter rummaging through our collective waste looking for who knows what.

For years Peter would wander the streets late at night spying neighbors windows. What was he looking for? Was he curious about other people's lives? Was he looking to point a finger at someone else's transgressions? I could only imagine the cultural shifts and changes he'd witnessed and negotiated over his 76 years. His unsolicited complaints didn't yield much in terms of critical thinking. Not that I'm some kinda saint. I have my gripes, too.

Sometimes Peter would forget his house keys and buzz our neighbors to be let in late at night. Nobody would let him in and finally he’d buzz me. I was the only one that ever let him back inside. Sometimes I'd get a phone call from a blocked caller I.D. I'd pick up and ask, “Who is this?” and Peter would be coy and play the “Who do you think it is?” game. He only ever called when he wanted something. But that's most people. Only, most people would see that caller I.D. and not pick up. I did because I knew he needed somebody. Some one.

Peter had lived in this building his entire life. But when they took away his body and held a wake down the block at the local funeral home, they couldn't put his coffin in the sitting room. They'd discovered his body five days after he passed away and he'd gotten rotten. A few of us gathered at his memorial and said a few things while he waited outside in the hearse.

I don't know if I believe in souls but I do think there is a unique ball of energy inside every one of us. A sparkle ingrained with our personal signature that carries the memories and milestones of our earthly footprint. The stuff we pass on to each other within the cosmic ether. Peter's entire universe was at this address and, like a lost ghost knocking at the door, he wanted to go back home. He wanted to be let back in.

Bullets took away Bruce Wayne's parents. It's what made him become The Batman. But Batman refused to carry a gun because he knew up close and personal what a bullet could do. That a bullet takes a life rather than redeems it. And if he could help rehabilitate a felon or the criminally insane from taking another kids parents away from them, Bruce Wayne was gonna put his inheritance where his heart was and suit up like a bat and scare the shit outta everyone in hopes of redeeming a mad world.

I understand that religion often promotes the concept of redemption. And if I were The Batman to Peter's Penguin, I'd want him to redeem himself if that's what he was looking for. Or if he just wanted to go back home and occasionally rummage through the garbage and snoop around the neighborhood, who was I to judge? I never stopped him before.

So I opened the lobby door – and I let him back in.

Wednesday, January 17, 7:30 PM
Greenlight Bookstore, 686 Fulton Street, Brooklyn, NY 11217
New York Cartoonists in Conversation: Creating Stories for Our World
Featuring Jon Allen, Dean Haspiel, Ellen Lindner, Peter Rostovsky, Bishakh Som, and James Otis Smith

Greenlight is excited to host an intimate conversation with a diverse group of New York’s accomplished cartoonists as these artist-writers talk about their art, craft, and experience. With creators specializing in genres from superheroes to memoir to history, this evening offers a chance to hear artists talk to each other, revealing their respective approaches as they engage sequential art and narrative in a time marked by enormous promise as well as instability. Join us for this special conversation about the singular ways comix helps these creators -- and us -- navigate the complexities of our world.

RSVP for this event HERE or HERE.

Happy 50, Manny!

love, Dean

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