Maybe I should be the mayor.

I was sucked into New York’s electoral chaos before I even knew that I would move to the city. I can pinpoint the exact moment. It was early May. I was sitting on a bench at Carl Schurz Park after a series of rather grim apartment showings, pecking at a leftover bagel from several hours ago and lamenting out loud that I would never find a good apartment.

Then, out of nowhere, a man surrounded by a small gaggle of people carrying cameras — possibly his own staff, possibly reporters — appeared, handed me a leaflet, said “vote for me in June for City Council,” and vanished as quickly as he appeared.

I come from a different school of campaign thought, which involves a computer carefully targeting people based on mysterious attributes and then having college students go out and harass the chosen few at their doorsteps as often as possible before the election. It is a miserable process for all involved and the available data suggest that it works as well as anything.

The dominant New York campaign strategy seems less effective based on my understanding of things, but it is a whole lot more fun. A few weeks ago in the middle of the afternoon, Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” started blasting so loudly from the street five floors below me that the windows rattled and I had to dismiss myself from a Zoom meeting. It was coming from an enormous bus, which was wrapped with a mayoral candidate’s face and had a massive speaker strapped to the back.

Walking through Inwood, a relatively quiet neighborhood in upper Manhattan, I walked past a pickup truck with a speaker on the top, which was playing loud music and a city council campaign advertisement in Spanish. I picked up very little except that the announcer kept saying “El Terror!” more than anybody might expect to hear the phrase in a city council race.

(Late update: At 12:23 this afternoon, one candidate brought a full-on parade float down 96th Street playing Sousa’s “Washington Post.” A march named for another town’s newspaper is a bold choice, but the candidate was a Republican and does not have much to lose in this neighborhood to begin with.)

Candidates themselves have taken to hanging around anywhere there is a line. Outside of the Trader Joe’s on Columbus is a popular spot (though it is outside of my council district) and the top of the 96th Street subway escalator has proven very popular indeed for the distribution of leaflets, which then blanket the ticket hall below when people discard them after the escalator ride.

For somebody who has spent his whole voting life registered in West Michigan, this all seems to be a bit much for a Democratic primary. The simple concept of a “Democratic primary” — and that such an election might be of any consequence at all — is enough to confound a person like me. Then there is a whole new city government to understand, a vast slate of candidates, a new polling location, and the great novelty of ranked-choice voting.

The New York ballot brings so much to the table. I will cast my first vote for somebody with the title of “comptroller” on Tuesday (my understanding is that they control the money) and also for “public advocate,” which the internet explains “serves as a direct link between the electorate and city government.” (One might hope that other elected officials would advocate for the public and serve as a direct link between the electorate and city government, but we apparently just get the one.)

Even the concept of mayor seems a bit strange to me in New York. Back home, the mayor sat closest to the middle of the dais at City Council meetings, but the hired city manager was always at work behind the throne. In New York, the mayor has an awesome power that approaches omnipotence. The mayor gets a motorcade, has the authority to declare snow days for the schoolchildren, and he introduced Wynton Marsalis at a concert I saw last week. 

People often say that the mayor of New York has the second-hardest job in the country. The first, I assume, is mid-summer political canvassing in treeless Michigan subdivisions, which New York politicians seem to avoid altogether. After that, how bad could the second-hardest job be? I would quite like to be all-powerful and meet famous jazz musicians, and that is not to mention the splendor of the living situation.

Gracie Mansion — the official residence of the mayor — sits moments away from where I was first ambushed by a city council candidate in Carl Schurz Park during my desperate apartment search. Had I realized this a few months earlier, I might have put my name on the ballot.

The mansion is small by mansion standards, but palatial for Manhattan and with a stunning river view to boot. It is close to the 90th Street ferry terminal, but a bit further from the Subway than my current apartment. I suppose this does not particularly matter when there is a motorcade on offer. I moved to New York to get away from cars, but I am sure I could adjust to having a motorcade if I had to.

Gracie Mansion is a dream home. The mayor has a yard, pays no rent and no broker fee, and gets the place for four years — with an option to renew for another four later on! It probably has a dishwasher, too.

With a house like that, it is no great wonder that the list of mayoral candidates will be so long on Tuesday, and can we blame these people? When it comes down to it, driving down 96th Street in a bus blasting Sinatra sounds much more pleasurable than any apartment search I have ever been involved with.

Distractions

Things I have been reading, watching, and listening to this week.

“Ode to Procrastination” by James Parker in the Atlantic.

“It’s an artificial state. A kind of lie. Outwardly, I’m at ease: I’m pottering about, I’m picking up books and putting them down again, I’m chatting gaily on the phone, I’m eating tortilla chips. But, inwardly, I’m in violent Luciferian rebellion against the angels of adulthood, of responsibility, of unfreedom.”

“Eavesdropping Through a Pandemic” by Sarah Larson in the New Yorker.

I will admit that I am an eavesdropper and I am proud of it. The pandemic was difficult in a well-soundproofed building of concrete and steel. Occasionally, there would be a squabble down the hall and I would throw myself on the ground, trying to listen through the crack under the door. After a year inside, New York eavesdropping has been the best gift a person could ask for. I am thrilled. Sometimes, trying to give back to the community, I’ll even raise my voice a bit if I’m  making a good joke on a phone call.