BROOKLYN: A Reminiscence

8-27-12

I started out as a baby boy in The Bronx. For reasons unknown to me, my parents moved me to Brighton Beach where when six or seven I was hit by a car and consequently acquired a compound fractured left leg and heel. Perhaps because I was not to be trusted in such violent streets, they moved me to Ocean Parkway, a four-lane road running from Prospect Park to Brighton Beach and which had, running its length, a bridle path where horses and their fantasy cowboys would trot by.

We lived on the first floor of a four story walk-up, window facing Ocean Parkway. Even though approaching maturity, I understood that once our building had been fancy, with a statue, now battered and disfigured in the patchy, weedy plot of grass in the front and fancy sconces in the lobby. The building surrounded a small courtyard, which I quickly learned was part of a short cut to Church Avenue. That storied street did not cross Ocean Parkway but went underneath so as not to disrupt traffic. I took a ride or two just to get the thrill of it.

My bedroom faced the back courtyard. It was a noisy place, the resident's garbage dump where all refuse wound up in trashcans waiting for the weekly pick-up. There was always a steady stream of people trudging to the cans and, it must have been written in heaven, that making noise in the process was part of a grand plan.

Kids took the short cut and, on the way with much gusto discussed their lives and plans for the next few moments. Usually, they involved a trip to Drooley's, our nickname for the local candy shop which sold ice cream, sodas, ice cream sodas, malteds, shakes, coffee, sandwiches and even had a for rent lending library. My mother regularly sent me there for any book and for cigarettes. My contribution to culture there was a chocolate shake made with orange ices. (I learned about sorbet much later in life.) Delicious in spite of the fools who sneered at my creation, I drank it up as nectar.

Weekends produced venders shouting their services. There was the Red Devil shoemaker, the “I buy old clothes,” man, the knife sharpener and the key maker. I vaguely remember someone selling haircuts, but I am not sure. Naturally, the most important skill was the ability to reach all floors to be sure they made contact with all possible buyers of their services. Considering the volume of noise they created, surely they were successful. Almost always, someone would shout from a window. “Shoemaker, come to 4 B you fix the shoes nice?” Or, “Hey, old man, I got a few shirts, you interested?” There was little sleeping in on Saturday or Sunday morning.

When my sister married and moved out, I moved in to her bedroom, facing Ocean Parkway. It was noisy beyond belief, because there were always kids runningscreamingfightingcrying and mamas yelling and soothing, sometimes both at the same time. Because it was a major street, the traffic was immense with many people going to Brighton Beach or Coney Island. We used to hitch rides to the beach but that brings up other adventures. Fire engines and police cars zipped back and forth hoping to prevent disasters and, of course, there were the obligatory car crashes.

Naively, I assumed that at night there would be pleasant silence, but traffic on that street never stopped. Did the police and fire department have special nighttime cars and engines, which made louder sounds? I do not like to think so, but it surely seemed so.

My childhood in Brooklyn was not like but actually living in cacophony. This truth had consequences when I married and moved to Syracuse. First, we lived with my parents but that is another story. In Syracuse, I discovered silence. It was so quiet that I could hear potential miscreants creeping up to me and Marilyn bodily harm. Every sound I heard was proof of that. No, I forget the damned crickets, may they roast in hell for all eternity. There were no traffic sounds, no kids shouting, no vendors, no trashcans, but there were the crickets and they made a persistent, grinding sound. Grinding, I mean grinding into consciousness all night long.

Well, now I could not survive in Brooklyn but woe betide any cricket I can find.

In Brooklyn, the sounds were persistent

And to them I became quite resistant

The noise and the strife

Were the sounds of city life

But, if you take it, I'll lower the rent.