Friday Prose: The Brooklyn I Knew

dear friends, i thought i might use Friday to revive some of the stories i wrote in prose, before embarking on this poetic journey of mine. my eyes have difficulty reading prose these days, my own included and i find myself curiously detached from these stories i once felt so invested in. (i’m not sure why that is )

i wrote these to to be read concurrently, each story informs the next, and the events seem unrelated until the end. it’s how it unfolded, as i lived it back in the 60′ and 70′ in Bushwick, Brooklyn. two of these are very early reposts, the last story was never posted and is quite long so it will be posted in two parts.

please don’t feel compelled to read these on your busy Friday morning, feel free to if you want to read them at all to take them into the weekend. thank you and i hope you enjoy them.
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I Was a Poor, Pimpled, Uncool Sulker.
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My new neighborhood bore no resemblance to the manicured fenceless grassed yards, single family house 2 cars in every driveway, ethnicity free Long Island town where I spent the first 12 years of my life. There were languages here and English spoken thick with Italian and German accents by old, crabby grey haired woman in black mourning dresses and rolled down black stockings who promptly at 7am bent at the hip, were scrubbing their stoops and sidewalks in front of their buildings.

Everyday and all day delivery trucks roared down the narrow one way, steamy asphalt streets blaring their big horns, belching exhaust and rustling litter along the curbs, barely missing kids darting between parked cars chasing balls and playing tag. Young mothers pushed big wheeled baby carriages and old ladies lugged shopping carts, choking the already narrow sidewalks. Heavy doors slammed behind people slithering past other people bunched on stairways listening to songs scratched out on small transistor radios.

Like a gargoyle I watched all the comings and goings, the backwards and forwards of incessant car and human traffic, scared of everything that moved. Unfortunately for me, absolutely nothing stood still on this unfamiliar Brooklyn street, this continuous canyon wall of four story buildings that swallowed whatever thankful breeze there might have been, choking everything but the noise, the noise that never stopped.

This was not a particularly human friendly environment, there were no trees along the straight line of streets that you could view for miles.

Not a single one.

The small concrete ‘yards’ that fronted the four story, continously connected buildings on either side of the stoop were just wide enough for four steel garbage cans, the other side was empty. That empty space was handy when it snowed but not for much else except wind blown leaves and garbage, it was walled off from the sidewalk by thick, foreboding wrought iron black painted fencing. Each building had their own scrolled designs, each topped by tri corner spears that if you accidently rubbed the palm of your hand against a tip you’d get a nasty scrape for your stupidity, as intended. The stoops were lined on either side by wrought iron railings, uncomfortably wide for a kids hand.
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My tomboy sister found this out the hard way, slipping off one the railings monkey climbing, losing her balance she was impaled on one of the spears. Folded and in shocked silence she lay there motionless as adults came to help but the aid proved difficult, the fences were over four feet high and it was impossible to remove her without causing further damage. Some wooden milk crates were found, placed front and back to gain leverage and she was eventually lifted off.

She was lucky, she needed only a few stitches to repair the three inch tear in her belly.

I was a poor pimpled uncool sulker at 13, an emotionally mixed up mess of a kid spending the first weeks after school ended that year in ’68, sitting alone on the top step of the 10 foot high stoop to my building at 232 Jefferson Street scrunched in the shadowed corner of the doorway, day after airless day. I sat in the same spot and in the same position, long arms looped around my legs, acned face resting between my knees just hoping that no one would notice and praying hard to be ignored.

I sat, shaken to the core scared; yeah, divorce does that to a kid.

From my perspective the best place to take all this in was from my third floor window. It felt safe there hidden behind the flimsy white curtains and the view from that vantage point allowed me to eventually recognize daily patterns, things people did each day. I was thankful perched there, thankful that at least something began to make some sense because so much had changed so quickly for this kid.

Divorce is a tragically shared family trauma and my mom, desperate for some privacy of her own in our cramped railroad style apartment filled with cheap mismatched Salvation Army furniture, decided that I needed to be outside, you know to soak up some sun and meet some other nice kids my age.

So of course I sat there on the stoop alone for weeks.
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Written April 2012, edited March 2013

22 thoughts on “Friday Prose: The Brooklyn I Knew

  1. TheGirl says:

    Great intro description. Buschwick (in terms of demographics) is completely different now. But the hustle and bustle is still the same!

  2. Everyone has his story.
    I love your blog and what you write

  3. kjpgarcia says:

    I could write a million stories myself about the Brooklyn I knew of the 80s and 90s – so unlike the Albany in which I now reside.

    And (possibly) sadly, the Bushwick of old which you knew is no longer there. So much has changed in old BK.

    • hi kjp, glad to see you again. heh, i was on your blog this morning while you were here.

      i’d like to read your stories too. yes, the Brooklyn we knew has disappeared, in Bushwick it really started changing right when i arrived in 1967, as did so many other things. my neighborhood was like Goodfellas and A Bronx Tale and in 10 years it morphed into something else completely.

      i’ve never been to Albany, the furthest i traveled upstate was Ithaca, almost went to college there. i imagine Albany is nothing at all like Brooklyn.

  4. Chagall says:

    Happy to see you revive this series of stories. —–Chagall

  5. Wonderful writing, incredible descriptions.

    • i guess tend to notice details that usually go unnoticed, i have a head full of images from a lifetime of observing. thank you for your wonderful compliments hitandrun, i really appreciate the feedback.

  6. straightforward and unpretentious with that ‘I want to read more’ factor. Great association between the gargoyle and the pimply dislocated boy

  7. annotating60 says:

    I was born and raised as a child in the big “B”.>KB

  8. […] you need to catch up…. I Was a Poor, Pimpled, Uncool Sulker. . […]

  9. Kirsten says:

    You paint such wonderful word pictures with your prose! If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the scents and hear the noises. Divorce is much harder on kids than parents often realize. I’m sorry you had to go through it at that age!

    • yeah, it is, and my uneducated parents violated every rule in the book of ‘dont’s’.took me a very long time to clear the plate, of the mess they left me.

      oh, and painting with words, is precisely how it feels to me, an ex painter. ty Kirsten, so much!

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