The Jersey City Independent "

What happens when a 19-year-old college student moves in with a single mom for the summer? A lot of shenanigans and a glimpse into what parenting a teen might be like …

Several years ago, I lived in a fabulous firehouse that belonged to friends of mine. I was basically a caretaker for the property during the time it was on the real estate market. As such, I hosted an interesting parade of guests and roommates during my stay, including a young Harvard student who was slated to live with me for the summer. 

A few weeks after I heard the news that a new houseguest was arriving I got a phone call from a very upbeat and earnest-sounding young woman. She said that she was coming to intern at none other than WFMU which is, of course, known to most Jersey City residents and widely regarded as the best freeform radio station in the country. I had been a fan of this listener-supported radio station for years and knew it very well — so that was our first common denominator.


When Nayeli arrived at my door the next day, I impulsively hugged her — somehow knowing we’d be fast friends. She looked almost like a younger version of me and she was already wearing a cute outfit that I might just need to borrow.



We gabbed the whole day together; about the radio station, the many bands we both liked, about how she would be happy to babysit for my girls. We also discovered that the one student I happened to know at Harvard was one of her very best friends. The coincidences were piling up.



Though I hadn’t actually had a roommate in over a decade, I quickly grew to love the idea. The firehouse was so big that we never got in each other’s way. She had the Battalion Chief’s room and her own bathroom with the satellite dish-sized shower-head. I had the master bedroom and access to the terrace; I felt like the Queen Bee and she … the Battalion Chieftess.



The weeks went by and summer was fully upon us. We entertained almost nightly blasting music in our spacious living room and re-discovering New Order; we danced to Avril Lavigne with my girls and we got into a brilliant Jersey City Ramones-style trio called The Impulse Int’l. Rather impulsively I decided to invite the band to play in our garage one night in July. After all, the firehouse garage was enormous and the band loved the idea; they said YES immediately.



We made the gig time early hoping that the neighbors wouldn’t complain — at 7 pm, it was practically an early-bird special. I purchased a few cases of beer and transported them home in a baby carriage, which was somehow fitting. Nayeli invited some of her friends and I invited lots of parents and their kids. With the garage door open all the neighborhood passersby could get an earful as well.



By 7:15 The Impulse was warming up and already creating quite a racket. What I hadn’t considered was that the pressed tin decorating the walls and ceiling of the garage would create an acoustical terror-dome. One reveler told me that she first heard the music upon exiting the PATH train; that was three blocks away. I was getting kind of nervous about the noise, plus there were a few too many kids running around free-range.



Suddenly, a neighbor came into the house looking rather grim. He informed me that someone had called the firehouse owner in California and said that there was a huge party going on in his home with a live raucous band!


I froze with dread. How could I jeopardize the sanctity of this wonderful home with a boozy punk-rock band? What on earth was I thinking? I quickly phoned the owner and explained that reports were wildly exaggerated; I reminded him that it was only 7:30 here on the East Coast. He was a great sport about it; however, he did suggest that I close the garage door as not to create any further complaint.



Doing that was a huge buzz-kill. It was now about 900 degrees in the garage and if we thought the sound was ear-splitting before, now it was positively tooth-loosening. In the end, I pressed the red “open” button and raised the garage door; the band played their final song in fresh air and evening light. Forget the neighbors — this was a pure punk moment.



And so it became the defining moment of the summer. Nayeli and I had created our own little scene which, for better or worse, became a much-talked about event in Downtown JC. If we didn’t set our status as rockstars per se, we solidified our rep as Rock-the-Firehouse concert promoters.

 (And years after they played in the firehouse garage The Impulse Int’l filmed a recent video — in a garage!)

Throughout the summer, we fell into our groove and got along perfectly, with nary a cross word expressed. Occasionally, I had to step out of my “I’m a teenager too” role and sometimes be a “mom.” I’ll admit that I would get momentarily annoyed at Nayeli for forgetting to take out the trash; or sometimes, more protectively, I’d find myself saying things like, “You cannot wear that on the subway.”



Usually, I just pushed the age distance out of the way and kind of felt my own inner teenager come through. There was a day when Nayeli’s friends and I just hung around on the terrace, playing music and basking in the sun. We intended to go out and do stuff, but truthfully we were enjoying being slothful. We pretended that we were staying at a fancy hotel in the South of France. We drank fresh lemonades with garden mint, read trashy magazines, then deconstructed the decline of Britney Spears, and why it’s prudent not to put Coke in baby bottles.



Around that time, she and her friend, Mischa, also from Harvard, decided that they would try their luck at being go-go dancers. Nayeli had been invited by a bar owner in Brooklyn to test out her routine the next time a band played the back room.



The night of the event, she and Mischa donned ridiculous spandex get-ups, matching in fuchsia with wide stretchy belts and worked their groovy magic. I, now in full parental mode, drove the girls to the venue and hung out while they tested out their synchronized moves; they were actually quite entertaining and fun. Would I ever let my own daughters do that? I didn’t think so. The night turned out to be a huge success monetarily (because who can resist tipping gals in spandex).


And so, just like summer’s last pink rays, the internship ended and it was time for Nayeli to leave the beloved firehouse and head back to school. By then I had grown so accustomed to her that I tried to convince her to transfer to Columbia instead and stay in New York. That was not going to happen, but we both knew that we had created a magical summer experience; much better than either of us had imagined.

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