The Surprising Real-World Economy of Westchester County, NY
Scenes from a family Fourth of July weekend in the suburbs
Act I
After my toddler throws a screaming tantrum at 7:00 AM on Saturday while we’re staying at my in-laws’ place in Westchester County, NY, the dog, Olive, runs away. The dog isn’t even my in-laws’, which makes things worse. Olive is a shy and skittish pit bull who was rescued by my stepmother-in-law’s daughter and is only staying with them while the daughter is in Honduras. I can’t blame Olive for making a break for it. I would have run if I could.
For the next several hours, my FIL and his teary wife scour the area for the dog, not knowing if she can be trusted to make her way home without getting hit by a car. The drivers in Westchester tend to act like they’re at Daytona, flinging themselves around corners at high speed, and the roads go long stretches without sidewalks. Who needs sidewalks when everyone gets in their SUVs to go from their driveway to the train station and back?
The toddler and I go looking for the dog too, which in our case means walking around the backyard as the toddler hollers, “Come back, Olive! I’m sorry! I learned my lesson!”
Act II
Not long after noon, the dog comes back of her own volition, tongue out, tail wagging. Just in time for the toddler to have passed through the various stages of Penitence and Obedience and returned, once more, to Joker levels of Maniac Criminality. I tell her if she cannot calm down, she can’t come with us to the lake at Bear Mountain. The whole point of today was to go to the lake at Bear Mountain. She’s eager to swim, but not so eager that she can manage to get herself under control.
“Pack your bags,” my FIL tells my husband and me. “We’re taking the baby and going to Bear Mountain.” The toddler can stay with his wife, who’s so hollowed out by relief about the dog she can barely stand.
The lake. The trees. The breeze. The toddler. She’s screaming again.
Without even saying goodbye, we take the baby and go.
Act III
The baby, my husband, and I recline on towels near the lake at Bear Mountain. It’s not as monocultural and country club-ish as I expected; I hear Spanish from one side of me, Russian from the other. English from the laughing couple playing Frisbee. Possibly some Polish too. My FIL is speed-biking a ten-mile loop, because that’s what overachievers do on their days off. He’s been suggesting we move to Westchester but there’s no Internet in the park, so I can’t scroll through my Real Estate app and see what a nearby three-bedroom would cost. Brooklynites pushed out of a city they increasingly can’t afford, shunted off to the suburbs: it’s a thing.
We brought cherries with us, and watermelon, but nothing crunchy. There are no vending machines. “I’m going to go buy some snacks off of someone,” Ben tells me. I give him a look that says, Please don’t embarrass me. He comes back with a bag of chips and some peanut butter crackers.
Later, a guy walks over with a big bag of pretzels. “You can have these too!” he says jovially.
“Thank you,” I say, and, because I feel compelled to apologize to anyone who I make notice me, “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s fine!” he says. “You guys are the talk of the park. Only healthy food at the Lake on the Fourth of July? Ha!”
“Ha,” I agree, and eat some pretzels.
Act IV
We’re driving back and at last we get cell service again. My stepmother-in-law calls to say that the toddler’s been fine, more or less, and can we pick up some garlic. “Hmm,” says my FIL. The only supermarket on the way had to close. “We’ll try the gas station.”
Unsurprisingly, the gas station has no garlic to sell. We buy some bananas and the proprietor throws in an extra because they’re so expensive that he finds it embarrassing.
“Community feeling comes out in funny ways around here,” my FIL says. “With the dog this morning? So many people offered to help. They were looking for Olive, calling us with updates. People drove around, looking.”
“People who were in their cars already?” asks Ben.
“One guy got into his Porsche and went looking,” says my FIL.
“Let’s try there for garlic,” says Ben, gesturing towards the small, 24-hour sandwich shop and bodega at which he spent his evenings as a high school student. Unsurprisingly, when my FIL and I go in, we find that the sandwich shop doesn’t have any garlic to sell either.
“They must have some in the kitchen, though,” I whisper to my FIL.
“You ask,” he whispers back. “You’re a girl; you’ll have better luck.”
The guys behind the counter relay my question down the line until someone goes into the walk-in fridge to check and emerges with a bulk jar of peeled cloves. Everyone exclaims. “How many do you need?” he asks.
I don’t know so he shakes some out into a quarter-pound plastic container. “Look good?”
“Sure,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
“Listen, I know,” he says. “The grocery store’s gone. How’s anyone supposed to buy anything?” Murmured agreement fills the store.
No one knows how much to charge me for a quarter-pound of garlic cloves out of the bulk jar. “How about $2?” asks the lady at the register at last.
“Great,” I say. Everyone is satisfied: they have a story to tell and so do I.
We go home to make a dinner that hopefully even a fussy toddler will eat without complaint. Along the way, we marvel at what small amounts of money can buy, even informally — and at what neighbors will do for each other, even when they’re effectively strangers. Some neighbors will get into their Porsches and drive around looking for a runaway pit bull. We’re not going to move to Westchester, but I have to admit, I’m kind of impressed.
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