New Yorkers generally maintain that our reputation for standoffishness is unfounded, that we’re actually a rather friendly group.

And, by and large, I’d agree.

Except for in my apartment building, where none of the tenants talk to any of the other tenants. Ever.

I’d noticed this when I first moved into the building three or four years back, but hadn’t thought of it again since, until Jess observed the same thing a month or so back.

In her prior Murray Hill digs, she pointed out, neighbors would say hello waiting for the elevator, chat idly on their way to and from their front doors. But, in our current building, a veil of silence descends at the lobby, and doesn’t let up until people slam their apartment doors behind them.

We’ve tried to bend that unwritten rule – a simple ‘have a good day’ on the way out of the elevator, a ‘how are you?’ on the way in – with zero results. The tenants stare at us blankly, or continue to intently examine the walls.

At this point, I’m considering options for upping the ante – breaking into song and dance in the lobby, doing elevator handstands – but I’m a bit worried even that might not yield a response. Stepford, indeed.