"The Brooklyn I Remember” by Stephanie Brown - 2019 Brooklyn Non-Fiction Prize Semi-Finalist

The Brooklyn I Remember

by

Stephanie Brown

Being Brooklyn borne has always been a source of pride for me.  I wore my birthplace as a badge of honor.  Even though only a small part of my life was spent within the borough, the memories of that time have comforted me like a warm, fuzzy blanket.

Growing up in Brooklyn in the 1960s was a daily adventure for this little girl who wanted to break out of the confines of Weirfield Street.  My family lived in the Bushwick section of town.  It was always a joy to go out with my mother and take in the sights and sounds of the street known as Broadway, with all of its retail stores.  My absolute favorite store to go to was John’s Bargain Store.  It was a chain of stores, much like the 99-cent stores of today.  I don’t remember if this store was on Broadway, but it had the best toy section. I always got to pick out one toy to take home.

I attended P.S. 299, where my classmates and I learned the importance of hiding under our desks.  In case the Russians decided to drop bombs on the United States, we would be protected from the blast.  Looking back, I have to laugh at the illogical logic of the adults who thought this up.  Those wooden desks would not have shielded us; they would have caused us to burn faster.  During the 1960s, the “red scare” was alive and well.  Luckily, we never had to put our “safety” drills to the test.

My two brothers were a few years older than me, and they attended different schools from the one that I went to.  One brother attended P.S. 45.  This was a new public school that had no windows visible from the street.  The reason for this architectural decision was always a mystery to me.  Some people said that it resembled a prison.  My brother graduated and went on to attend Halsey Junior High School.  When he joined the school band, my mother and I got to hear him and his fellow band members play the music scores of the school’s production of ‘Guys and Dolls’.  I loved every minute of it. 

My father worked a lot of hours to support his wife and three children.  He wasn’t able to attend school functions; this was left up to my mother.  One of my fondest memories of Brooklyn life was when my father took all of us out to dinner at White Castle.  I think this was the one on Atlantic Avenue.  At that time, they had the waitresses bring your food out to your car in the parking lot.  Can you imagine getting that kind of service at White Castle in the 21^st century?  Nope.  I’m picturing the food thrown into your open car window.  Let’s hope that your car window was open before the food was hurled at you.

As if going to White Castle wasn’t a big enough treat, after dinner, we went to Carvel for dessert, which was right next door to each other.  Hamburgers, fries, orange drinks, and ice cream were the best menu items any kid could ask for.  Sometimes, my parents would order food from Chicken Delight and have it delivered to the house.  Chicken Delight was a fried chicken franchise that existed before Kentucky Fried Chicken.  To this day, my brother still remembers their radio commercials with the catchy jingle.

I have an enormous sweet tooth and preferred homemade desserts.  Still, I simply could not get enough of the miniature Shabazz Bean Pies that my father had purchased from the neighborhood Muslim establishment.  These pies were popular when Malcolm X and his followers were out in full force.  I wish I could find a recipe for those delicious bean pies.

As a child under the age of 10, everything I saw was a new experience for me.  I remember going on family outings to Prospect Park.  Absorbing the warm sunshine and breezes of the day added to the fun as my father tried to teach me how to fly a kite.  I never did get that right.

Next to Prospect Park was the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.  I was lucky enough to visit there during a class trip.  I believe that seeing hundreds of incredibly beautiful plants and flowers helped to instill my everlasting love for Mother Nature’s colorful bounty.  I have tried to recreate some of those plants in my backyard but to no avail.  I, unfortunately, have a “brown thumb.”  I have even managed to kill a cactus.

As mentioned earlier, my family lived on Weirfield Street between Bushwick and Evergreen Avenues.  Some of the one-family houses had wrought-iron fences in front of them, while others had the chain link fences in front.  My best friend, Theresa, lived around the corner on Halsey Street.  A few years ago, I found out that Jackie Gleason grew up in Bushwick.  His ‘Honeymooners’ television character, Ralph Kramden, also lived on Halsey Street but a few miles north of Evergreen Avenue.

During the 1960s, my oldest brother attended Boys High School.  This is where he joined the fencing team.  My father also attended Boys High School (not at the same time as my brother).  As coincidence would have it, the lead singer of the 1950s/1960s R&B group, Little Anthony and The Imperials, Anthony Gourdine, also attended Boys High School.  These noteworthy alumni graduated from this historic school before its name changed to Boys and Girls High School.  To this day, I still can’t get used to the name change.

My mother attended Franklin K. Lane High School.  She would tell me stories of her attending classes while looking out the window, watching funeral processions at Cypress Hills Cemetary, which was right next door.  That visual image always gave me the creeps.  Who wants to see people being buried on an almost daily basis?  Crime boss, John Gotti, also attended Franklin K. Lane.  I was shocked and saddened to learn that this high school has since closed down.

Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved old buildings.  Whenever my mother and I took the bus from Bushwick into downtown Brooklyn, I would look forward to seeing the Williamsburg Savings Bank building.  I adored the clock at the top of the building.  One of our favorite stops on Fulton Street was McCrory’s 5 and 10-cent store.  They had the best chop suey and hot dogs.  Our next stop was usually the Abraham & Straus Department Store.  This store had an exquisite architecture that would take your breath away.  During the Christmas holidays, this place was magical.   They spared no expense decorating the store with every holiday ornament known to man.  Their store windows would be filled with Christmas decorations, lights, puppets, and other toys.  Any child would be held spellbound by this vivid vision like I was.

I had forgotten how many movie theaters there were downtown.  There was the Loew’s Metropolitan, the RKO Albee, and the Duffield.  Years later, it was at the Loew’s Metropolitan where my brother and I saw the movie, Mommy Dearest, with Faye Dunaway.  This movie was not supposed to be a comedy, but the theater audience occasionally roared with laughter, as did my brother and myself.  Before switching to showing films, these theaters had live entertainment on a nightly basis.

Also located downtown, was the Paramount Theater. I never got to see the inside of the Paramount, but I read somewhere that the interior was like a palace.  The architecture of these old movie theaters represented a bygone era.  It’s too bad that most of these old buildings were not maintained in their original style.  I have a framed Paramount Theater concert poster promoting a July 4^th, 1963 show with Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Jackie Wilson, Lloyd Price, Wilson Pickett, and the All-Star Rhythm Revue.  The admission was $5.00. FIVE DOLLARS.  Concert tickets have certainly come a long way.

Back in Bushwick, our movie theaters were the Loew’s Gates and the RKO Bushwick.  Despite the movie theater’s darkness, I could see that these places had that old-world architecture.  Both of these theaters eventually closed down.  This was one of those times where I wished that time could have stood still and kept these places intact.  Once our history is torn down or redesigned, it’s pretty much gone forever, which is quite sad.

Aside from the movie theaters, I remember the supermarkets in the area.  We had a few stores to choose from.  There was Key Food, Waldbaum’s, and A&P.  When you shopped at A&P, you got something called ‘Plaid Stamps’.  You licked the back of the stamps and placed them in a booklet that was also supplied by A&P.  After the booklet was filled with stamps, you returned it to the store and exchanged it for items.  It was like a point system.  The more food you bought, the more stamps you got.  The more stamps you redeemed, the more expensive was the item that you could get.  My mother put me to work licking stamps and putting them in the A&P booklets.  It didn’t take long for me to hate the sight of those red Plaid Stamps.  The glue on those stamps tasted terrible.

Neglecting the appearance of things isn’t always a bad thing.  There were streets in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn that weren’t properly maintained.  You could see the cobblestone street underneath the asphalt along with the metal streetcar tracks.  If you closed your eyes for a moment, you could almost hear the clippity-clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone, right along with the sound of the streetcar’s bell.

My great-grandparents lived in Bed-Stuy on Willoughby Avenue, between Tompkins and Marcy Avenues, not far from the landmark Cook Mansion that stands on the corner of Bushwick and Willoughby Avenues.  They also weren’t far from the brownstone that F. W. Woolworth lived in on Jefferson Avenue, between Marcy and Nostrand Avenues, at the turn of the 20^th century.  It was during one of my visits to their neighborhood that I noticed the cobblestone streets and streetcar tracks.  Another landmark was the castle-looking building known as the Bedford Armory.  This building is on the corner of Bedford and Atlantic Avenues.  While driving home, I would pass this structure.  I never got the chance to go inside, but I wish that I had.  As you may have guessed, I love old historic buildings.

As much as I enjoyed Brooklyn life, it would last for very long.  At least, I was able to continue mingling with royalty.  My family moved from the borough of Kings to the borough of Queens.  I spent the next three decades in Queens.  The allure of Brooklyn would pull me back from time to time.  When I wasn’t in Brooklyn to go shopping, I was there visiting my relatives in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brownsville, and Williamsburg.  I also attended college downtown at New York City Technical College.

This college has gone through several name changes.  I believe that they started out as Vorhees College.  During my attendance there, the name was New York City Community College.  Before I graduated two years later, they changed the name to New York City Technical College.  When I had to get a copy of my college transcript from them, I found out that they had changed their name, yet again, to New York City College of Technology.  I have never known a college or person to undertake so many name changes.  I’m sure that there is another name change in the future.

When school was out for the summer, I got a job working for a children’s day camp.  One day, we took the kids to the New York Transit Museum.  This delightful step into the past is located in downtown Brooklyn on Schermerhorn Street.  I thoroughly enjoyed seeing all those subway trains from yesteryear.  I think that I had a better time at the museum than the kids did.  Recently, I saw a picture of a train car from the 1940s.  I instantly recognized that car as one of the trains that I had traveled on during the mid-1960s.

Seeing that picture brought back memory flashes.    I remembered that the train had tiny fans that barely worked, except to make a horrible grinding sound.  I also remember the constant smell of burning wires, as well as the “cushion” seats that had wires sticking out of them.  Now, I know that we were traveling in subway cars that were over 20 years old.  I’m so glad that those trains are gone.

It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen Brooklyn; or any other part of New York.  I returned to attend my father’s funeral at Bethany Baptist Church on Marcus Garvey Blvd.  After the service, my brothers and I jumped into our rental car and drove around Brooklyn.  We reminisced about our youth as we passed by the schools, supermarkets, residences, and restaurants that helped shape who we are today.  We made a point of visiting the White Castle on Atlantic Avenue and Highland Place.  White Castle’s menu has expanded, and their food is just as good as it has ever been.  We knew that this would probably be the last time that all three of us would be in New York at the same time.

Going through the old neighborhoods brought back so many memories.  We saw how much Bushwick and Bed-Stuy had changed since we left.  The friends and relatives we visited in Brownsville, Bedford-Stuyvesant, Williamsburg, and East New York are all gone now.  I can still hear their voices in my head like it was yesterday.  Those magnificent brownstone buildings are a testament to Brooklyn’s rich heritage.  As a child, I didn’t appreciate the architecture of these significant structures.  Seeing them again, in person, has deepened my love and respect for this incredible borough.

I still remember seeing the World Trade Center standing tall in the distance, as I gazed out of my grandmother’s sixth floor Brownsville apartment.  The horrific events of 9/11 and its aftermath are etched in my mind and heart forever.  Though I live on the other side of the country now, I try to keep up with the goings-on in New York through online newspapers like the New York Daily News and the New York Post.  Seems like the older I get, the more of a
Brooklyn resident I become.  You can take the girl out of New York, but you can’t take New York out of the girl.

Memories, whether good or bad, give us a point of reference for present and future endeavors.  I’m happy to say that my good Brooklyn memories outweigh my bad Brooklyn memories.  When anyone asks where I’m from, I can say with pride that I’m from Brooklyn, New York.  I can also give anyone the “stink-eye” if they dare diss the borough of my birth.  It’s the least that this adorable little girl born in St. John’s Hospital can do.

"POWER TO THE PEOPLE, AMEN” by Mark Berger - 2019 Brooklyn Non-Fiction Prize Finalist - Honorable Mention

POWER TO THE PEOPLE, AMEN

by 

Mark Berger

These memoir stories take you inside two 1960s, Brooklyn-based, civil rights initiatives. Both were aimed at giving power to the people by directly challenging the political and educational establishments. In 1965, the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement ran its own candidate for city council against the Democratic Party machine’s candidate. In 1968, the Ocean Hill-Brownsville Demonstration School District was established to give local residents control of their schools. I was involved and committed to both movements. These stories harken back to a time when “Power to the People” was more than a slogan, it was an organizing principle.

Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement

Leaning across the table in Junior’s restaurant, the well-known Brooklyn eatery, my political pal, Andy, asks me, “How’d you like to see Pete Seeger and Odetta for free?”

“Sure. Where?”

“Brooklyn Congress of Racial Equality is starting something new. There’s this big kick-off at the Siloam Presbyterian Church in Bed-Stuy.”

“Count me in.”

Meeting in the evening; we take A train to Nostrand Avenue. To get the church, we walk past storefronts and turn onto a residential street.

There are seats available downstairs, but Andy leads me upstairs to the front row of the balcony. Leaning over the railing, he scans the crowd.

“What a great turnout,” he says.

“Looking for anyone in particular?”

“Undercover fuzz. The police department’s Red Squad usually sends an undercover cop to spy on us.”

“Here?”

“Where else? If Seeger and Odetta are playing and the head of Brooklyn CORE is speaking, you can bet rats are listening. In Mississippi, the folks who trained us said we should look for people who almost fit in.”

Reverend Milton Galamison steps to the pulpit. “Tonight, at Siloam exciting things are happening….Some people call me a pain in the you-know-what, because of my commitment to civil rights. They charge me with wanting to be my brother’s keeper. I plead guilty. Our church pleads guilty. We are our brother’s keeper, our sister’s keeper too, because that is what our Lord, Jesus Christ, commands us to be.”

“Amen.”

“This evening, we’ll hear from our true representatives—Bayard Rustin, one of Dr. King’s most trusted advisers,and Major Owens, the leader of the Brooklyn chapter of CORE. Brother Pete Seeger and Sister Odetta have kindly offered to perform for us.”

First up is Bayard Rustin. Dignified and articulate, he delivers an impassioned glimpse into how the civil rights movement is expanding its scope.

“We must confront economic inequality, because it is the root cause of the poverty and problems, we see around us,” Rustin says. “Without good jobs and a decent place to live, you can’t have real freedom.”

“Right on, brother.”

“Now please welcome two true friends. They sang with the Freedom Riders in Alabama. They sang with us at the March on Washington, and, tonight, in this blessed sanctuary, they’re singing songs of freedom and justice—Pete Seeger and Odetta.”

Pete, playing his banjo, and Odetta, strumming a guitar, walk to the front of the pulpit singing, “If You Miss Me at the Back of the Bus.” The audience claps and sings along.

“Let’s go downstairs and see what we can see,” Andy says.

Moving down a side aisle, I study the crowd, thinking “almost fit in.” In the fifth row, there’s this white guy, thirtyish, wearing a new jean jacket. Instead of singing, he’s looking around, taking things in. Is this a little rat?

I point him out to Andy who nods. “I get the same vibe. Let’s keep an eye on him.”

After a rousing set, Seeger says, “Odetta and I raise our voices high in support of Brooklyn CORE. They know that real freedom means good schools, good jobs, and honest public officials. Please give Major Owens your full attention.”

Cheers and foot stomping welcome Owens, dressed in a business suit, to the pulpit. His determined voice booms through the church. “Brooklyn CORE has a message to send to the city’s leaders about freedom and peace. Freedom means holding a decent job, so you can give your children everything they deserve. Peace means having a safe place to live. Right here in Brooklyn, CORE organized a rent strike. The most successful one this town’s ever seen. Over a hundred buildings joined up and together, with one voice, we declared, ‘No more broken furnaces, no more leaky roofs, no more rats and roaches. We demand safe and secure places to live.’ As you all know, as everyone knows, we won that strike. We put the city’s powerbrokers and landlords on notice.”

“Tell the truth, brother.”

“Tonight, I’m here to tell you about a new, bold undertaking—the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement.We’re challenging the Democratic political machine. It’s a mighty hungry machine—takes our votes and gives us nothing in return. It’s time our representatives represent the people, not the landlords and profiteers. So right here, right now, I’m announcing my candidacy for the office of city council from my neighborhood, your neighborhood, Bedford-Stuyvesant.”

The crowd rises in applause. A young woman, with a close-cropped Afro, and robed in a red, black, and green dashiki, takes the mic.“Our next councilman—Major Owens of the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement. BFDM members are circulating donation buckets. Please fill them high with your contributions. Sign-up sheets are out there, too. Help us elect Major Owens, the people’s candidate.”

“I’m signing up,” I say. “Brooklyn needs to get its shit together. How ‘bout you?”

“Already have,” Andy says grinning, “I’m the BFDM weekend office manager.”

When people start leaving, we tail the rat, keeping our distance. Going a block, he lights a cigarette; we stop and pretend to talk. A black guy in green chinos and a white button down shirt joins him and they climb into car.

“How come all unmarked cop cars are the same—black Plymouth Furys?” I ask.

“Because they think everyone’s stupid. Sending two of them here means CORE’s got the Establishment up tight.”

“Feeling all that enthusiasm about getting Owens elected, fills me with hope.”

“Yeah, it was a great night, but things could get heavy. Mark, this is how the game is played. The Man can go outside the law, break all the rules—infiltrate the movement, wiretap our phones, set us up for busts—while we have to make damned sure that every single thing we do is legit. Make one mistake and they’ll break us.”

“When are they opening the office?” I ask.

“This weekend.”

“I’ll be there.”

Ocean Hill-Brownsville

As our final semester at Long Island University winds down, Dr. Moore, our education professor, talks to us about getting a teaching job in the fall.

He explains, “Education majors can either wait for the Board of Education to assign them to a school or seek a position on their own. Waiting for the Board to act will result in an assignment to a ‘rough and tough’ school, because that’s where most of the openings exist. Teaching spots in good schools are predominantly filled through word of mouth or personal connections.”

A student asks, “What about non-education majors?”

Moore replies, “Those individuals have to locate positions on their own. My advice is to all of you is: don’t delay; start searching immediately.”

“What about Ocean Hill-Brownsville?” my friend Barry Cohen asks.

“Let me be honest. Few future educators would want to work in a district that is run by the radical militants who caused the horrendous citywide school strike back in the fall.”

I smile to myself—that’s exactly where I want to teach.

After class, three of us go across Flatbush Avenue to the College Donut Shop. Connie Vincent, in her LIU sweatshirt, says, “My mother’s friend is an assistant principal in Bensonhurst and she’s promised me an interview at her school.”

“I have a provisional license.” says Barry, in a Cornell T-shirt. “I need a job, because I need a draft deferral. Any school is better than going to Vietnam, but where to start?”

“I know,” I say, “Ocean Hill-Brownsville.”

“Are you crazy?” asks Connie. “Didn’t you hear Professor Moore?”

“That’s his opinion,” I respond. “I followed what happened with the school strike and I definitely support Ocean Hill over the teachers union and the Board of Education.”

“So, you’re a militant?” she says, nudging me with her elbow.

“Look, the Board of Education has been failing minorities forever. Just imagine being a parent sending your child to one of those schools, knowing full-well that they’re the worst in the city? And, after decades of failure, what has the education establishment done to improve their track record? Nothing, nada, bupkis.”

“Hold on.” says Connie. “Too many of those kids come to school unprepared. Whose fault it that?”

“Mark’s saying, it’s a vicious cycle,” says Barry.

I say, “Last year the Ford Foundation came up with a new approach. With permission from the powers that be, they funded a couple of ‘demonstration districts.’”

“Yeah, they demonstrated how to shut down all the schools,” says Connie.

“The Foundation wanted to find out if education results would improve if the neighborhood residents elected their own school boards, like people do in the suburbs? They were hoping that if community reps and educators worked together, maybe they could come up with ways to make their schools better.”

Barry says, “But if that district superintendent, y’know, the guy with the pipe, Rhody McCoy, hadn’t fired all those teachers, the union wouldn’t have gone on strike.”

I shake my head. “That, my friends, is the big lie. The lie Al Shanker, the union boss, told over and over again, and the newspapers and television stations lapped it up. But that’s not what went down. All McCoy did was to tell 13 teachers and six administrators that the district wasn’t going to rehire them in the fall and that they should report back to the Board of Education for reassignment. McCoy never fired anyone.”

“Come to think of it,” Barry says, “I’ve never heard of a teacher being fired.”

I continue, “They all could’ve been reassigned in a day. McCoy was doing his job—moving out bad teachers and moving in good ones. Professor Moore calls it radical, but on Long Island, they call it common sense. Education 101: Students learn better with better teachers.”

“Your explanation makes sense,” says Barry.

“Everyone talks about making the world better, I can’t think of a better way for me to do that than becoming a teacher, the kind who really wants to make a difference.”

Walking back to campus, Barry asks me when I plan to contact Ocean Hill-Brownsville. I tell him I already have and they told me to call right after graduation.

Two days after our commencement, Barry and I are sitting in the reception area of the Ocean Hill-Brownsville Demonstration School District. The door to the inner office opens and there he is, the controversial school superintended, Mr. Rhody McCoy—well-built, wearing a camel’s hair blazer, and smoking a meerschaum pipe.

Introducing himself, he invites us into his office. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I understand you’re both looking for elementary school teaching positions.”

Barry says, “Yes, yes we are.”

“Good. Were you education majors?”

“I wasn’t,” I say.

“Neither was I,” Barry says.

“Then, you’re the kind of candidates we’re looking for.”

“Great,” Barry says, with a smile.

Mr. McCoy continues, “I say that with regret. I wish education departments properly prepared future teachers to educate less-fortunate students. The model they use is that of a middle-class youngster with an intact two-parent family. Often that’s not what we have here. We need to develop a new approach to education that meets our students where they are.”

“I believe in student-centered classrooms,” I say. “Being a teacher means knowing and respecting your students.”

“I like your enthusiasm,” say Mr. McCoy.

“I believe in community control, and I definitely don’t believe teachers should strike and shut down the schools. The kids have it hard enough already.”

“Today’s kids are tomorrow’s adults,” says Barry, “So whatever we do will have a big impact on their lives.”

Mr. McCoy says, “Please tell me about yourselves.”

Barry goes, “I’ve worked three summers as a day camp counselor and I really enjoy working with younger children.”

I’m next. “Last year, at the LIU tutoring clinic, I worked with a third grader and he really did great. I loved being able to help him. Also, a couple of years ago, I worked for Major Owens, when he ran for city council on the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic line. Although he lost that election, he wasn’t defeated. Last year, the mayor appointed him to head the city’s anti-poverty program.”

“I know him well. He’s a good man,” says Mr. McCoy. “All right, gentlemen, I’m convinced. I have a school in mind, P.S. 73, but you’ll have to persuade the principal, Mr. Grimaldi, to give you a chance. I’ll call him to let him know you’re on your way.”

The drive over in a gypsy cab reveals a neighborhood that’s filled with boarded up buildings, dirty streets, and few stores. At the school, we sit in the main office for an hour, while a constant stream of people enter and leave the principal’s office. Finally, the secretary waves us in.

Mr. Grimaldi, in his fifties, with a paunch, is matter of fact. “You both made a good impression on Mr. McCoy. I don’t have time to interview you, so instead I have a proposal—if you substitute teach here for the rest June and do a good job, I’ll hire you for September. Fair enough?”

“Start teaching now?” asks Barry.

“College is over, right?” says Mr. Grimaldi.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

“Me, too,” adds Barry.

“Good. See Mrs. T., the school secretary. She’ll set you up.”

While we fill out forms and give her our licenses, Mrs. T. asks, “Did Mr. Grimaldi tell you about the school?”

Barry replies, “He said if we did a good job subbing, he’ll hire us for September.”

“Trial by fire. No matter,” she says. “When I have a teacher absence, you’ll get a call either the night before or at 6:30 in the morning. You must get here by 8:40, in time to pick up your class. Can each of do that?”

“We have to, so sure.” I say.

On the subway, Barry says, “You’re right, McCoy’s a gentleman. He’s definitely not the racist that the news portrays him as. I mean he just hired us—two white, Jewish cats, without a blink.”

“Like I told you, he’s sincere about changing the schools.”

“Mark, tell me the truth, do you think we’re going to be OK?”

“We got jobs, didn’t we? The rest is up to us.”

"TONY VERSUS THE LEMONS" by Cheryl Abel - 2019 Brooklyn Non-Fiction Prize Finalist - Honorable Mention

Tony Versus the Lemons

When I first arrive in Brooklyn in the 80s, my friend Rick and I are waiting at the subway.  A subway train pulls up, startling me when I see the explosion of bright colors, symbols and pictures painted all over the cars.  “How beautiful!” I say.  Rick laughs at me, saying in his delightfully exotic Brooklyn accent, “Whadyakiddin’ me?”  Seeing my confusion, he adds, “You know.  It’s the famous New York graffitti?”

Young and living from paycheck to paycheck, Rick and I move to a rent-controlled apartment in Windsor Terrace between Greenwood Cemetery and Prospect Expressway.  Fortunately, furnishing the apartment is practically effortless since people frequently put their unwanted furniture out on the street, free of bedbugs--every last one gone in the 70s via a satisfying torturous death by DDT, as payment for all the untold misery they had inflicted.

Wearing the official uniform of 20-somethings in the late 80s—blue jeans with tee shirt in black or other innocuous color--we scout around Saturday mornings, scarfing up a frayed but comfortable tufted yellow ochre sofa, two matching faded greenish lounge chairs, a gouged and chipped coffee table, and a small dinette table with two wobbly chairs.  We thumbtack a few posters onto the wall, and our new home is ready.

The sagging brown townhouse where we live, second floor, is located on the only block that’s safe from the surrounding neighborhoods of drug users and dealers.  There’s a rumor (or urban legend?) about a nearby neighborhood where Dominicans invented crack as a marketing convenience, unaware of just how popular it would eventually become.  As we’re grooving on our fabulously lowish rent, neither of us thinks to ask: why is our block spared?

During every night of our first week, we’re blasted out of sound sleep by a clock radio going off at peak volume in the apartment below us.  Exhausted by lack of REM sleep, we keep stuffing frantic notes under their door, and tell the ancient landlord, who merely shrugs his shoulders.  We envision drug addict neighbors who are either oblivious or incredibly stupid.  Fortunately, they (actually normal people) return from vacation and apologize for how they had left their clock radio set so cringingly early in order to arrive at the airport on time; they give us a thoughtful bottle of white wine.  Henceforth, they’re known as the clock-radio people.

Once the circles under our eyes disappear, we get to know the neighborhood better.

We drink vast quantities of milk--cautiously since the milk always goes bad precisely on the “sell-by" date, courtesy of the (alleged) mafia-controlled dairy industry.  The nearest grocer is way on the other side of no-man’s land, a scary inconvenience whenever we discover the empty milk carton at 10 pm.  It’s never wise to move the car, lose our parking spot and have to park 15 blocks away, so I can’t believe my luck in discovering a low-key deli store without a sign right in the middle of our block. 

As I enter, I’m assaulted by the hostile stare from a brusque, suspicious, chunky older woman with unsmiling face and strawberry blonde hair.  I glance around for mere seconds, and see three candy bars on the counter and all the shelves and dairy case, completely empty and dark with grime.  Averting my eyes, I still feel the hostile glare burn ever so bright and strong while I hastily back my way out of the (non) store, profusely apologizing, afraid to turn my back on her.

I later find out that, if you stay off her turf (her name is Sue), she’s mostly benign, even endearing whenever she gets drunk in the middle of the night and stands in the middle of the street singing her heart out: “Lean on me, when you're not strong, and I'll be your friend ….”

I don’t see much action as I walk daily to and from the subway on the way to work.  The neighborhoods are quiet and empty during the day, although sometimes I feel a fleeting premonition, not unlike how someone might feel if they’re standing on a beach after all animals have fled just before the tidal wave hits.  Nevertheless, my walks are largely uneventful, except one time when a gang of Latina girls dump buckets of ice on me as I surface from the subway.  Or when a gigantic balding man jumps in front of me demanding “give me a dollar."

The F train is equally forlorn, forcing me to wait for over an hour sometimes for the next train.  I usually entertain myself analyzing the huge advertisements plastered on the walls.  One advertisement is a public service announcement about taking drugs during pregnancy; it shows a wailing newborn child with the ominous caption “imagine becoming addicted before you’re born”; underneath, a budding comedian(?) has scrawled “imagine waiting for the F train until you die.”

The bus service is also unreliable and uncaring.  Under the proud sign “BUS STOP”, someone has written underneath, in careful beautiful script, “and sometimes it don’t”.

One night, the clock-radio people drop in with a bottle of better wine. Slightly older, she’s a tallish drop-dead beautiful, poised, dark woman, he, a hyperactive, towering Italian.  They look more grownup than us--well-pressed pants, a nice blouse, button-down shirt, nicely coiffed hair.  They also look a little out of place while sitting on our furniture that was so generously provided by the street.  Among other tales, they tell us about Tony, who purportedly runs our neighborhood, with insinuations of criminal or drug ties.  They offer no specifics, however.  After that, we visit each other about once a month.

We begin to find out how our neighborhood really works on the night a car is set on fire at the end of the block.  Rick (Mr. Civic Duty) calls the police, who never come.  So, like most Brooklynites, we “fuggeddaboudit”.

A week or so later, one night about 11 pm, someone knocks on our door.  I look out the peephole and see none other than the chief of the neighborhood, Tony, an older Italian, skinny-as-a-rail, with black wavy hair to his shoulders, and intelligent black eyes. 

Breathless, I open the door with all the respect I think I’m supposed to give him.  He steps right in, as if he’s an old friend, telling me, “Cheryl, you gotta secure your car.  A couple of Puerto Ricans are trying to break into your car and steal the boom box you left in the back.  I chased them off with a knife, but they'll be back.”

Then he points to our art poster on the wall, “Saturn Devouring His Son”, laughs and shakes his head, intoning, “oh, Goya, gloom and doom, spreading it all across Europe.”  He turns to me, “makes you want to run screaming for something more upbeat like, uh, Boticelli, don't you think?  Or how about that Bellini, with all the jokes, right?”

He makes me laugh with his antics and his obvious plug for Italian artists. I stop expecting something untoward, and relax.

When Rick’s curious face peers from around the corner, Tony beams at him, “yo, Ricky”.  It seems Tony knows everyone's name in the neighborhood.  Just like a neighborhood chief would, I’m thinking.

We ask Tony to please sit down and have a beer, which he graciously accepts, while Ricky runs to get the boom box out of the car.

For the next few hours, we learn about Tony’s former days as a longshoreman, how he has been addicted to heroin since he was 14, and currently lives with and takes care of his disabled dad.  He tells us wistfully about the long-ago innocent days when you could get drunk on 25 cent beers, pass out on the sidewalk, and still have your wallet on you the next morning.  He talks like he cares about people; there’s no sign of ruthlessness.

But he’s also a very shrewd businessman.

Back in the 80s, there’s no car lemon law.  If you unsuspectingly buy a lemon, you’re stuck with it.  Unless you’re put in touch with Tony, that is.  He’ll steal your lemon (with your permission), strip it for parts, set it on fire, and pay off the police.  This makes everyone very happy (except maybe the insurance companies).

Rick and I are delighted (and a little relieved) at how Tony is actually a hard-working social activist, who lives on our very block and saves the little people from getting screwed.

From then on, we always say hi to Tony and his work crew.

A few years and many car bonfires later, we move away.But I still always smile when I remember cheerful, funny, thoughtful Tony,neighborhood chief, activist, and art aficionado, who is always looking out for his people.  He was a bright star in my life.