"Walkabouts--A Brooklyn Story"
By
Daniel Daponte
He is not sure how it
started. It certainly was not some noble undertaking. It was not a quest. It was a walk. It was, as his father referred to it, “a
walkabout.” But to him, it was a quest with no goal or maybe the most selfish
of goals which was:
--to avoid household
chores.
“Do the dishes,”
his Mom said.
“I will. But first, I’m going out,” he replied;
knowing that if he was out long enough, his parents would inevitably do the
dishes.
He walked at a clipped
pace. Often when he was alone on an
empty street, he could hear the distinctive “tap-tap” of his shoes against the
sidewalk. On this day, he walked with unfamiliar
people in underdeveloped streets then on overstuffed sidewalks. He journeyed to an emptier avenue so he could
be relatively alone with his thoughts and music. Borough borders of Brooklyn were no match for
his phone, his Nike Air Monarchs and the rapid rate of his own feet. The music
drove him to walk faster then pushed him to think and finally, pushed him to
Imlay Street.
It was a long street
bordered by a hulking abandoned “New York Dock Co.” warehouse and various smaller
brick buildings past their prime. Today,
it was completely empty. The only form
of life he saw were birds gracefully gliding under the grey sky. He felt far
removed from civilization even though the lively Van Brunt Street was just a
block away. He could picture himself a
lone survivor in the city, walking down desolate streets. In the absence of civilization, his
imagination ran wild. The feeling was liberating yet eerie.
He walked alone
wondering; “Why?” which was something his parents asked him often.
“Why are you
walking?” A second voice emerged and
answered in his conscious, “What was in the streets that he couldn’t find by
himself, with his friends, or on Google?
Hey, remember the stories dad tells about all the urban grit that was
New York when Dad lived on the Lower East Side? Yeah, those were the days. A live action, self-amusement park featuring
staggering junkies, purple Mohawk-haired punks and squatters fighting to keep
their abandoned buildings. New York
sounded fun, every walk a dance with danger, every person pretending to be one with
a real story to tell unlike the ones
spewed by hipsters that populate every place now.”
“So why are you walking?”
He answered himself
with: “Don’t you get it? You’re walking
to recapture the grit and the fun of New York that dad reminisced about. You need this, man, something to change the
sameness of your life. When you find
what you’re looking for, it will change your life, and believe me, your life
needs changing.”
This voice was firm
and strong. All became silent, even the
music, as the realization kicked in. He
wished for some urban coincidence to throw him into some kind of exciting situation.
Any
situation, maybe meeting an old friend, even something dangerous, anything
different to shake up the mundane rhythm his life had become. He continued to walk, humming and hearing one
of Dad’s songs in his head:
“Creature comfort
goals,
They only numb my
soul,
And make it hard for
me to see,
My thoughts all seem
to stray,
To places far away,
I need a change of
scenery”
He looked up from his
shoes and his music playlist to see the brick skyline of Brooklyn Heights, which
consisted of (always) freshly scrubbed brownstones and new condos. It all seemed too...clean. He turned his head to the left to see the more
magnificent and much older Manhattan skyline; a tall testament to generations
past and golden ages of commerce.
Up ahead, he saw the
homeless resident he called “The Flamingo Man” because he walked around with a
shopping cart full of plastic lawn flamingos. His dad talked about the legions of squatters he
knew back in his heyday, so it was a sign of progress that he now knew one
homeless man who took refuge in this affluent neighborhood. Today, “The Flamingo Man” had a heavy jacket
and stared at the gray sky with a glazed look on his face.
“Most definitely the intended
and unintended victim of lots of substance abuse,” his dad says.
His dad also says he
knew “the Pope.” In 1979, a pleasant
Pope moved to First Avenue on the Lower East Side. His name was Mickey and he was called the
“Pope of Pot.” The Pope headed a church
of potheads who boasted to have the most extensive delivery service in the five
boroughs. The Pope’s more benevolent activities included delivering marijuana
to AIDS patients free of charge. The
Pope ran his mouth a bit too much to please law officials. His dad says he walked by Mickey’s apartment
the night the police paid him an unfriendly visit; using a bit more force than
necessary.
Yeah, it was just
another episode of history that time forgot about. Speaking about time:
His parents would
occasionally berate him for spending too much time walking and not enough time
reading. For wasting too much time with
no point. But his point was as sharp as
the pencil he used to first write this story. He was looking for himself on the
streets; something that could define him.
Man, what a mood he
had gotten himself into. He peeked out in front of a parked silver Honda at the
curb. As he waited to cross, the silver Honda roared off and almost ran over
his feet. It jumped at him, hugged the curb and made a sharp and speedy right
on to DeGraw Street. A jostle of adrenaline shot through him. It was just enough
to not get hit, enough to make it across the street and, enough to keep walking,
and softly sing:
“Woke up quick at
about noon,
Just thought that I
had to be in Compton soon.”
It was about noon and
pale light persisted between the dark clouds. He had been walking for about two hours now.
The scenery had changed from parks and apartments to post industrial. Through
all this, his music, with tastes ranging from Simon and Garfunkel to Nas,
played on. On these walks he was not only his own navigator, but his own DJ.
This freedom he shared with no one else; which made it a selfish love but made
him eagerly anticipate these walks.
Still hoping to
capture some urban grit, he walked along the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. There
lay cracked sidewalks that had not been replaced in years, some jutting out of
their place, looking like they wanted to break free and trek down the road with
him.
Then, after sprinting
across Hamilton Avenue, he walked alongside the “Gate to Hell.” “Hell’s Gate” was a pedestrian bridge that
went over Hamilton Avenue but ducked just under the B.Q.E. and, after crossing
the sprawling highway, let the crosser out in Red Hook. The bridge had been affectionately titled by
his parents when they first moved in for all the ruffians that used it to cross
into the gentrifying neighborhood. Now
that the “disease of gentrification” had spread to Red Hook, all that came from
hell was the occasional hipster and the lazy cyclist.
Sometimes when the
music wasn’t working for him, he would go on to the “Gate to Hell” and sit
directly beneath the BQE to listen to the rhythm of the automobiles passing
overhead. The cars’ rhythm soothed him
like the rhythm of being on a train as it passes over rail ties. He would have sat there now just to feel part
of something, to feel part of the journey of the drivers above, but cold and hunger
were creeping up him. From the “Gate to Hell,” home was within reach. With the crossing of one lazy street and three
brownstones up the block, he would find warmth and maybe even a good sandwich.
Yet even though his feet throbbed and the playlist had stopped, he wasn’t ready
to go home. Not yet; today he was determined to find something. So he restarted his I-Phone music and crossed
the “Gate to Hell.”
His feet might hurt
when he stopped but now that he was moving, hitting the stride he knew so well,
he cruised deep into Red Hook with ease. He felt nothing but the music and his
thoughts; but it was the thoughts that irked him. Keeping with the tempo of the
heavy bass in his rap tunes, his thoughts quietly repeated, “Something’s gonna
happen. Something’s--” It was an idea and a wish that only seemed to
exist deep in his mind.
He was in the part of
Red Hook where smooth paved streets gave way to old cobblestone. It was very quiet now save for the occasional
truck rattling down the street.
“Turn right for
Steve’s Key Lime Pie.”
The worn sign
reminded him of a sweet memory, the warm aroma of him and his parents together
with some sugar-filled pies.
This was Van Dyke
Street, one side lined with a semi-industrial park, mostly empty lots and
storage containers and on the other side a blank white wall which will soon act
as a canvas for graffiti artists. He
crossed hurriedly and kept walking while thinking:
“It’s just another very lazy day with a high chance of rain,
nothing seemingly anywhere is happening.”
The other part of
him argued that, “There was a mission, a quest that outweigh your petty
assumptions.”
“But you don’t wanna
get stuck in the rain, do you?” the first side retorted.
“No but--”
“Wait look at that!”
the second side interrupted.
He looked up from his
feet as he neared the curb, for a second the music seemed to fade. The Red
Toyota was back and zooming up the street, seemingly unfazed by the uneven
cobblestones. The other car, a silver Honda, was speeding off Conover Street.
It made a sharp right veering off the smooth tar of Conover and on to the
cobblestone of Van Dyke. They both didn’t have enough time to stop.
He instinctively
stepped back, but could not avert his eyes. It was pretty much a head on
collision.
The sound of the
crash was muffled by him hearing “The Sounds of Silence.”
“Hello darkness my
old friend...I’ve come to talk with you again…”
He was still slowly
backing away when the drivers got out.
The Red Toyota took
most of the damage, the grill was completely trashed and the front was mushed
in, a low hissssssss escaped both the engines.
The Red Toyota man
got out first. He crawled out hands
first, clasping the ground with his feet still in the car. Blood trickled down
his face from his balding head. He heaved and vomit spewed out and on to the
street.
The lady in the
Silver Honda was seemingly unscathed except for getting punched in the face by
her airbags. She got out feet first and
leaned against the doorframe of her trashed car.
The Red Toyota man
had stopped vomiting and was trying to recover from well...everything. He still
had not gotten out fully, his legs half-tucked in the car; his arms extended to
the street. The Red Toyota was stooped over looking at the street and taking
deep, gasping breaths. Then, the Red Toyota man looked up and right into his
eyes. The gaze held and it seemed as if he was staring into his soul. The man’s
gaze to him said, “Well this is something different isn’t it? Isn’t this the
excitement you craved?”
He kept stepping back
slowly, still staring at the Red Toyota man, then he did the only thing that
felt natural…he ran away.
He ran fast, not
caring about “The Sounds of Silence” or the sounds of sirens. Even when the
music stopped and his earbuds popped out, slapping against his jacket, he kept
running. He ran until his legs burned, no, he ran past that, he ran through
that. He ran until his heart was in his
throat, until every beat vibrated his whole body.
Then he stopped and
the world came back into crisp focus. He leaned against a wall while he looked
down and took the biggest gasping breath he had ever taken. Tears stung his
eyes. What had he done? Why did he
run? Was it because he realized that the
man was not staring into his soul but was looking for help?
He leaned harder on
the wall. He saw all of it again, two strangers in an urban coincidence be at
the wrong place at the wrong time and smash into each other.
Why does that happen?
Strewn car parts
across the cobblestone flashed in his mind.
There was blood
coming from that man's head and he--
Leaking oil, the hiss
of the dead engines.
-- ran away. He was
the only witness, the only possible hero to call 911 and he ran away. His arms
seemed to buckle as he thought, “How could I? How could I not do anything?”
He was a coward on a
crusade to find danger in his city but when he found it he just, he just ran
away. Now, he would walk away. A calm, collected walk to the warmth of home and
leave the cold uncaring fate of the streets.
What would happen
now?
The cops would come,
the people will go to a hospital, insurance cards would be exchanged and the
cars would be towed away. Then, the oil and bloodstains on the cobblestone
would wash away and no one except him, the Red Toyota man and the silver Honda
lady would in time ever know that the crash happened exactly there.
There was no more
turmoil in his head, only a calm collected reflection as he coached himself to
walk home and think:
“This city has my
fate. And it doesn’t give a damn about
me…about anyone.”
Time, the city he
knows now, and the past episodes of his life would keep marching into distant memory.
But he couldn’t deny his fate’s thrills; the thrill of seeing everything that
was in the city, which included the cobblestones and the crash. Then he thought:
“That’s it!”
He had come to the
conclusion that it was useless to wait or walk for his fate. Wandering and walking is not going to change
his life. And he doesn’t need fate or
the walkabouts; just like the city or fate doesn't need him. This revelation stunned him like the crash; no
music or the rhythm of trucks overhead needed.
Yet maybe it was just
his fate to have been walking along the grittier side. That was the value that
this journey had taught him: his fate was everywhere in the city, in the poorly
paved alleys, the rusty bridges and in the decrepit neighborhoods. A smile
flashed across his face as he let his thoughts come to fruition.
“That just might be
my fate, only now I can stop walking for it.”
He let the words hang
in the cold air as he walked home. He hoped those words would stay a reminder
for the rest of his life.
“If I can make it
there, I'll make it anywhere,
It's up to you, New
York, New York, New York, New York,
I want to wake up, in
a city that never sleeps,
And find I'm a number
one, top of the list,
King of the hill,
A number one!”
***
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