The elevator in my South Bronx apartment building worked as often as a spoiled child. Then, one day, on the sixth-floor landing, someone held a fashion show; on the fourth, someone installed a disco; on the third, movies played, drinks were served.
Tenants organized street fairs. The drug dealers relocated. The cops, who had their hands full, now slept in their cars. The building became a tourist attraction. The landlord charged non-residents to enter.
Then one day, he fixed the elevator.
The professionals moved in. Fancy stores opened.
The rents were raised.
And just like that, the party was over.
