Thursday, May 25, 2006


My new Brooklyn neighborhood possesses a number of charming attributes, notwithstanding the wide assortment of characters to be found on my front steps every evening. Why this week alone, one night it was the police and a rather heated scene, the next night a band of pot-smokers, and the next night a somber notice tacked to the door that one of the neighbors had died. Generally speaking, the fresh faces on the block are friendly and fun. Last week in the laundromat (I apparently love reccounting episodes in public laundries) a crew of firemen burst in (the boiler next door had rattled itself to pieces) and everyone remained calm, save for a young lad, who tried to engage one of the firemen in a discussion of his heroicism. Alas, the firefighter, severely encumbered by a dented oxygen tank, was not particularly in the mood to converse. On the other hand, a surprisingly vocal constituency in the neighborhood is comprised of the plants potted in the little squares of dirt at the base of the trees. Virtually every patch of earth is ringed with a tiny picket fence, and amongst the sprouting plants and flowers are little signs that read "We've already been fertilized," "Please! No dogs!" and the cheerful but ambiguous "We're growing!" The variation of the style of these signs indicates that it's numerous people responsible for their creation--which demonstrates the arts and craftiness of my neighbors. The local groceries are also amazing places. Heaven forbid anyone need foodstuffs past 8:00 PM, as that's when many of these establishments close. Luckily enough for me, many of the nearby salons are open all night, so I can stop in and select one of about ten complicated braid styles to have my hair done up with. Maybe if I acquire a distracting enough hairdo, next weekend I'll be able to get that fireman to talk.

1 comment:

Katie said...

Forget the firemen. Aim for the tattooed EMS guy.