Escaping to, and from, the roof

The 1962 song “Up on the Roof” contains this bit of enchanting lyrics, “On the roof, it’s peaceful as can be.”

To me, that sentence is more fantasy than glimpse of urban bliss. As someone who grew up in a five-floor-walkup in the Bronx, the roof door was gateway to the apocalypse.

Up on the roof, illicit lovers coupled and users shot up. One young man in my building, who grew up to become a rodeo star, once hung off the brick lip of the roof by his fingertips, while his compatriots screamed “don’t do it.” He wasn’t going to. The young man craved both peril and attention. He and his buds scrammed when police showed up on the street below.

Another time, those same young men dressed up and stuffed a full-sized scarecrow, dangled it from the roof, pleading with “it” not to jump. Thinking that the shape was real, folks on the sidewalk screamed, “don’t do it.” Then the boys dropped the human figure to its demise, while onlookers shrieked.

Over the years, I noticed that the roof was empty in winter. That’s when I visited.

The wintertime roof was a place to enjoy “alone time,” and to see the wider sky. Both were invigorating, even if I froze.

The song, “Up on the Roof” also notes, “I go up where the air is fresh and sweet.” Again, that is charming make-believe. Air on the rooftop was no different than it was five-floors below, except that sometimes it smelled of tar. But in winter, it was definitely breezier and colder up there, with fewer ways to shelter from the wind.

One winter morning while I was alone on the roof, someone locked the door behind me.

Previously, a man who lived on the top floor had warned us kids to stay off the roof or he’d bolt the door if he heard footsteps overhead.

The fire escape was my only route of exodus. I climbed down the outdoor staircase only to find that that the ladder was raised and tucked into the first-floor landing. I would have to jump the final 10-12 feet.

So, I peeked into an apartment window. There was a four-member family at the kitchen table. Embarrassed, but out of options, I tapped the glass.

The dad (I knew the family and they knew me) walked over and unlocked the window. I climbed inside. It was warm in there, and the kitchen smelled of bacon. Shaking her head, the mom said, “I’m not even going to ask,” as she led me out of the apartment.

Winter up on a Bronx roof meant a little bit of solitude and a lot of chill. A sense of escape, however, implied more than one meaning.