CityStories

It’s twilight in my neighborhood, balmy, breeze, fading streaks of sunset. A block party from First Saturday at the Brooklyn Museum spills out over Eastern Parkway and down onto Washington.

I wear a girly dress, complementary jewelry, makeup, sunglasses, headphones. My hair is curled. I carry two large bags. I’m returning from a wedding; my day is done. I want nothing but wine, takeout, Netflix.

I walk down Washington with all the purpose of my typical New York stride, but a bit slower, cooler, taking in the night, the music, the breeze, the smoke from the jerk chicken grilling on the drum outside the Jamaican restaurant.

Groups of men hang out on the sidewalk, going nowhere, doing nothing. They stand on corners all evening long, observing, and occasionally calling out, if the girl is pretty.

One man calls out to me, “Hey mami, you need some help?” It doesn’t seem like an offer to carry my bags. I begin to shake my head to decline as I walk, without breaking stride, without altering my forward stare.

But he answers his own question. “Nah, you don’t need any help.” I switch from shaking my head to nodding, still without breaking stride or altering my gaze. “You have a good evening,” he calls to my back as I pass.

Gold ribbons and names for the American dead.

Blue ribbons for the countless unknown Iraqi and Afghani dead.

Prayers of peace for all.

Damn, the light was beautiful. What a ride.

Taken on the move, one hand on the handlebar, one on the iPhone. No doctoring the clouds. That’s all God.

I had no plan. I just kept going, turning with free lights, til I broke out on the water, then followed the path down. There was a large crowd with lawn chairs and cameras out, news vans from several TV stations.

What’s going on, I asked.

The space shuttle is coming this way, a man said.

Flying? I asked, innocently.

No, it’s riding on a boat, under the Verrazano, he replied. It’s going in a museum.

Oh, OK. Everyone was here to take a picture of the space shuttle on a boat. Personally, I thought the clouds were more impressive.

Two young girls were playing on the sidewalk while two women in bright orange and red saris, apparently their mothers, sat on a nearby bench and observed.

Suddenly one of the two girls ran up to one of the women and half-whined / half-cried, “She says she’s going to call the police and arrest me!”

The other girl continued to dance about on the sidewalk, somewhat oblivious to the trauma she had caused

The woman took the girl in her lap and began speaking in what sounded like a South Asian language, then ended her speech, in heavily accented English, “Just tell her, ‘If you do that then I won’t play with you.’”

That seems reasonable: if you call the police to arrest me, I won’t play with you. The girl wiggled off the mom’s lap and returned to her friend. They kept playing, no police came, and everything was fine.