Characters
One of the fun things about moving to a new New York apartment is getting to know the neighborhood characters. We had no “characters” per se in Roseville—just very nice neighbors who brought us tomatoes from their gardens and a kind, wonderful landlord and landlady who actually surprised us by returning a portion of our June rent since we left mid-month. But here—there are characters to spare. Could it be any other way in Brooklyn? Park Slope has more than its fair share of stylish moms pushing thousand-dollar strollers and shops selling $80-a-pound charcuterie, but the pre-gentrified neighborhood still exists thanks to the many residents who have lived here far longer than the young-family newcomers.
Among the characters we’ve met so far is a woman I’ll call Nellie, who’s lived on the block for fifty years. She’s clearly the queen of the block, knows everyone, everyone knows her. She doesn’t so much talk as yell—though the volume, one senses, is simply part of her natural voice. Now that she’s met me and Lucia, she’s always ready to offer parenting tips. Last week, when I told her Lucia is teething, she said, “You give that baby a chicken bone. You gotta go old school.” When she said this, she was wearing nothing but a bright yellow bath towel. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I met her on the sidewalk, her wet hair up in a clip and a bath towel wrapped around her. It seems someone had interrupted her mid-shower; but she seemed in no hurry to return to it.
And this weekend, as Andrew attempted to clean the absolutely blackened window in the baby’s room—standing outside on the fire escape—Nellie, looking over at him from her back yard, screamed out, “God bless you! Those windows haven’t been cleaned in thirty years!” Indeed, Andrew was scraping great swaths of grime from the window. Ah, city living.
And then there’s the guy who marches back and forth in front of our building, screaming violently into a cell phone. He’s less interesting than somewhat alarming, though also seemingly harmless—he seems to be involved in helping another man, the block’s super, deal with the neighborhood’s trash on trash day. Andrew and I aren’t sure what to make of him, but he seems to be a fixture on the street, and no one but us seems to be batting an eye—I suspect we, too, will soon tune him out. Ah, yes, city life.
I heard him shouting again a few days ago, and when I looked out the window, I saw him marching threateningly behind a restaurant-menu person who was attempting to slip menus into the gates at the bottom of brownstone stairs. As I watched, the guy ripped the menus out of the gates as soon as the menu guy had put them in, throwing them to the curb and screaming, “Not on my block! I’m responsible for these houses! I clean these! No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu)” The menu guy seemed unfazed; perhaps this was a regular occurrence.
Lucia, perhaps, will become a character in her own right. We ate with Andrew’s mom at Brooklyn Fish Camp last week, and Lucia made the waitresses laugh by making, in their words, an “evil elf face” at them as Andrew and I obliviously enjoyed our shrimp.
Among the characters we’ve met so far is a woman I’ll call Nellie, who’s lived on the block for fifty years. She’s clearly the queen of the block, knows everyone, everyone knows her. She doesn’t so much talk as yell—though the volume, one senses, is simply part of her natural voice. Now that she’s met me and Lucia, she’s always ready to offer parenting tips. Last week, when I told her Lucia is teething, she said, “You give that baby a chicken bone. You gotta go old school.” When she said this, she was wearing nothing but a bright yellow bath towel. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I met her on the sidewalk, her wet hair up in a clip and a bath towel wrapped around her. It seems someone had interrupted her mid-shower; but she seemed in no hurry to return to it.
And this weekend, as Andrew attempted to clean the absolutely blackened window in the baby’s room—standing outside on the fire escape—Nellie, looking over at him from her back yard, screamed out, “God bless you! Those windows haven’t been cleaned in thirty years!” Indeed, Andrew was scraping great swaths of grime from the window. Ah, city living.
And then there’s the guy who marches back and forth in front of our building, screaming violently into a cell phone. He’s less interesting than somewhat alarming, though also seemingly harmless—he seems to be involved in helping another man, the block’s super, deal with the neighborhood’s trash on trash day. Andrew and I aren’t sure what to make of him, but he seems to be a fixture on the street, and no one but us seems to be batting an eye—I suspect we, too, will soon tune him out. Ah, yes, city life.
I heard him shouting again a few days ago, and when I looked out the window, I saw him marching threateningly behind a restaurant-menu person who was attempting to slip menus into the gates at the bottom of brownstone stairs. As I watched, the guy ripped the menus out of the gates as soon as the menu guy had put them in, throwing them to the curb and screaming, “Not on my block! I’m responsible for these houses! I clean these! No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu) No! (toss menu)” The menu guy seemed unfazed; perhaps this was a regular occurrence.
Lucia, perhaps, will become a character in her own right. We ate with Andrew’s mom at Brooklyn Fish Camp last week, and Lucia made the waitresses laugh by making, in their words, an “evil elf face” at them as Andrew and I obliviously enjoyed our shrimp.
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