"My Peculiar Neighbors"
By
Richard Jefferson
The
Prospect Heighter is one of the most unique and fascinating species indigenous
to New York City (well, maybe not unique; I find there is very little
difference between her and her big sister who resides next door, the Park Sloper
from Park Slope). Perhaps the most telling aspect of Prospect Heights,
Brooklyn is that it qualifies as both a dollhouse district and a Sophie sector.
I’ll explain. It’s a dollhouse district because half of the houses in this
neighborhood resemble dollhouses due to the absence of window dressing. And
this goes for the ground floor windows at nighttime as well. This makes
absolutely no sense to me; the occupants are on full display and, because of
the sharp light contrast, they can’t even see out. Anyway, this mind-boggler is
by far the most dependable indicator there is when it comes to determining the
make up of a given neighborhood, as this is pretty much only done by well-to-do
or hip or erudite metropolitan types.
And, just as surely, on a
walk through my neighborhood during the day, one is guaranteed to see the other
principle indicator, at least three black women – nannies who look like they
would have stereotypical nannie names like Sukie or Sophie – pushing white
babies in strollers, or following behind them as they scoot along on one of
those u-BK-uitous, crank-less, wooden bike things (I always say my peculiar new
neighbors buy houses just so they, too, can have a mortgage to complain about,
and have babies just so they can plop them down on one of these ever-so
Prospect-Heights-lady-adored wooden bike things). And, incidentally, if it’s
not one of these then they’re pulling them along in one of those red, iconic,
sickening Radio Flyer wagons. They love these wagons more than chalkboard paint
and chest-mounted baby-carriers – heck, maybe even more than tandem bikes
strapped to the grill of an Airstream, speed bumps, and the sweet retribution
of unfavorable Yelp reviews combined.
Besides this, I
suppose all that is left to say about my peculiar new neighbors is that, like
pretty much every other human being on the planet, they want it both ways. They
want to be seen as the most down-to-earth, free-loving people on the planet,
when, in truth, they are as discriminatory as any other educated, well-employed
resident of the city, including those on the other side of the East River; they
just wear more fleece. They want to take advantage of Brooklyn’s somewhat more
enduring image, and be viewed as a salt of the earth, junkie-leaping,
domino-playing type of New Yorker, while actually living in present day
Brooklyn that’s as edgeless as an edgeless PB&J. They build benches around
just about every tree but they’re not truly communal. Just like their bird
feeders are more for blue jays than sparrows, who they really have in mind when
they build these benches is Logan and his stylish, slim mommy, pausing
momentarily on their way home from Montessori school to retrieve some baby
carrots and edamame, not Joe the mechanic and his buddy Sal the plumber and
their grade D salami. My peculiar new neighbors and Down-to-earth – ha – just
like Downtown Manhattanites and cool, down-to-earth is just an arbitrary
persona that they have immodestly appropriated, period.
But just
because I see my peculiar new neighbors for the pretentious, old-world-loving,
storybook-sentiment-imitating jerks that they are doesn’t mean I don’t love my
neighborhood and, even, my neighbors, because I certainly do. Living amongst
latte-sipping, Subaru-driving, 100k-plus-earning, wanna-be-marathoners
(contrary to popular opinion, doing does not equate being anymore than knowing
equates believing or buying equates getting) definitely has its benefits.
Unlike Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, where I did an eight-year stretch in two
different apartments, there is no one in my neighborhood screaming vulgarities
up the street, or idly (if not menacingly) standing about watching people come
and go, just mature men and women purposefully walking up and down beautiful,
tree-lined streets, and zipping in and out of well-cared-for properties and
boutique-style businesses with
Synecdoche-style names like Bark (hotdogs) or Bump (maternity clothes), or ends
in studio, pantry, or haberdashery (the only chain store my peculiar new
neighbors support are Duane Reade and Starbucks). Here graffiti is
largely replaced by stenciled socio-politic-a-hole messages on sidewalks, like
‘listen to the voiceless,’ ‘free tibet’ and ‘kale yourself,’ or blue, red, and
yellow chalk writing directing kindly passersby to the nearest lemonade stand
or stoop sale. Here belligerent bickering at cashiers is replaced by entitled
entreats at shopkeeps. Here a vehicle driving slowly up the block isn’t a
police car shining its spotlight, but a knife sharpening truck ringing its
bell.
Here litter is
replaced by the unequivocal junk that is set by, what seems to be, every third
house’s gate and called a curbside-donation. Such items are mostly books,
shoes, and baby items, but I’ve seen every variety of this premium trash lying
against these heavy, ornate, iron gates, things like VHS copies of Turner and
Hooch, old faded Niagara Falls or Boston Red Sox tee shirts with stretched out
necks, and lone survivors of dish sets, perhaps a teacup and saucer. You see,
another important aspect of being a down-to-earth Brooklynite is being
charitable, but my peculiar new neighbors don’t know what the word means. They
think it means giving to others, when in reality it means taking from oneself.
They fancy themselves charitable just because they plop some crap down at their
gates that no one for two continents gives two craps about. They don’t know
that it’s impossible for one to touch someone without actually feeling it
himself.
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