Luis Ramos works in the Himrod Wilson Community Garden in August. (Photo: Brian Browdie/The Brooklyn Ink)

Luis A. Ramos, 46, who lives next door, started clearing the lot two years ago. “When I came to this lot, it was full of weeds this high,” said Ramos, who is five feet five, holding his hand at shoulder level.

While Bushwick has other community gardens built on formerly vacant lots, the fledgling Himrod Wilson garden may be the newest. But what’s invisible amid the greenery – and most distinctive about the plot – is the before and after of Ramos’s life. The garden showcases his journey from addiction to activism as much as it does the tomato plants that by August spill over the tops of their supporting stakes.

Miriam Gonzalez, a neighbor who has lived on the block for 13 years, says that Ramos restored what had been an abandoned corner. “We used to chase rats away that came scurrying out of that lot,” Gonzalez recalled.

Ramos hauled away garbage and cut brush. He built a compost bin, fashioned a cistern out of a blue barrel, replenished much of the soil, and erected the plywood frames that surround each bed. Just outside the garden, Ramos installed a low wooden fence around three young pin oaks. He painted the fence celeste green.

Rafael Garcia, who has worked at the glass business across Wilson Avenue for 23 years, said that before Ramos came along the city cleaned the lot once every year. “We think the guy is doing a wonderful job,” said Garcia.

Ramos grew up in Bushwick in a family of four boys and two girls. He liked science, and was among the first students to graduate from the city’s Philippa Schuyler Middle School for the Gifted and Talented. Though Ramos dropped out of automotive-repair school after he was unable to afford a new tool each month, he later earned a G.E.D.

In 1988, Ramos lived with a girlfriend and their infant daughter in the Ridgewood section of Queens. He worked mostly as a messenger or store clerk, with a new job every five or six weeks. While he used cocaine, marijuana and alcohol out of boredom, he also started to smoke phencyclidine, better known as PCP or angel dust.

Eventually, Ramos discovered crack cocaine and his drug habit intensified. “Crack is very psychological and intensely sexual,” recalled Ramos. “When I thought about getting high, I would throw up first.”

Ramos, who has known since childhood that he is gay, moved out in 1991 and started to live more openly as a gay man. He met a man who later became his partner. Together they marched in the first pride parade in Queens in 1992, and attended the gay march on Washington, D.C. a year later.

But the stability did not last. Ramos started smoking crack again. “From there, I was off the hook,” said Ramos. He also started seeing someone else, slept wherever he could, and worked on and off as a messenger. “I worked to get high,” said Ramos, who also steered other users to crack. “To get a piece of rock or a toke of the pipe, you help other users find where the stuff is.”

One day in 1993, Ramos steered two men to a spot where he knew they could score. The men gave Ramos a $20 bill to buy them eight “two for fives,” the small bags in which crack was commonly sold. Ramos purchased the bags and gave them to the men, who gave Ramos two. Ramos went behind a building to smoke them when two police officers approached. The two men for whom Ramos had purchased the cocaine were undercover agents.

Ramos was arrested and charged in State Supreme Court in Queens with the criminal sale of a controlled substance, which carried a mandatory sentence of six to 12 years. Though Ramos had several prior arrests for trespassing and minor assault, those cases had all ended in dismissals.

In 1994, a jury convicted Ramos of the criminal sale charge. Ramos was shuttled among several prisons across the state before serving four years at the Marcy Correctional Facility in Oneida County.

Luis Ramos tends one of the Himrod Wilson Community Garden's four plots. (Photo: Brian Browdie/The Brooklyn Ink)

Following his release in 2000, Ramos worked at a copy shop on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, and later at another document business on Broad Street. But by 2006, years of substance abuse had extracted their toll on Ramos’ body and left him unable to lift reams of paper, a task his work demanded. He now gets by on disability income and Medicaid.

When Ramos’ mother, with whom he lived following his release, moved to a new apartment in 2007, Ramos lived with friends and in homeless shelters before finally finding an apartment of his own. Homelessness spurred Ramos to ask questions about how to obtain city services. “That’s when I really became an advocate,” he said.

Today, Ramos’ apartment is part garden tool shed, part political war room. From a computer at his kitchen table, Ramos produces videos in support of varied causes, including the successful push for same-sex marriage in New York State and a second mayoral bid by William Thompson, the former City Controller who lost a close race to incumbent Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg in 2009.

Ramos reserves most of his energy, however, for the Himrod Wilson garden. “I’ve had a life full of starting stuff and never completing it,” said Ramos, who has a trim moustache and olive skin. “I’m 46 years old, and in the past two years I’ve done something for the community.”

The neighborhood has responded in kind. The glass business and a pizza parlor next door donate wood. Neighbors donate packets of seeds. “Once a guy just pulled up in his truck and gave us a rose,” said Lauren Roche, 24, who moved to Himrod Street last fall and met Ramos on her way home from work. “Luis was playing funk music and working in a flower bed, and I just asked him if I could rent a plot.”

Roche and Ramos haul in their own water to supplement whatever the cistern collects. “It makes you appreciate what it takes,” Roche said. “Luis is super handy, and he doesn’t stop.”

In July, Ramos recruited six boys from the neighborhood to help him remove dead trees and other debris from a basketball court that adjoins the garden. They carried out 12 bags of trash, including bicycle rims, wheels and a saddle, which they set aside for kids who might need them.

Ramos says he hopes his experience can guide people younger than him. “I have Jesus advice, because I’ve been on that cross,” he said. “I try to prevent others from bearing that cross because all that drugs do for you is death.” Ramos wonders what his daughter, now 25, and two sons, ages 24 and 23, will think about their father’s life. He talks with them occasionally.

On the sidewalk outside the garden, Ramos sweeps debris into a pile for pickup. He plans to stay up all night to see who’s been leaving it there. Ramos also has asked the city to install a trash can on the corner and to post signs that warn people to curb their dogs.

While Ramos says he doesn’t have regrets, his past compels him. After someone left broken plastic bags of rotting garbage that neighbors crossed the street to avoid, Ramos donned latex gloves, dragged the trash to the corner, and washed the sidewalk with Pine-Sol detergent. “The garden is an accomplishment I did,” said Ramos. “The trash reflects on me. It’s an embarrassment.”

From his upstate prison window, Ramos saw fields of morning glories, the purple flowers that open during the day and close at night. He planted them in the Himrod Wilson garden. Ramos says he cries sometimes when he sees them.

On the third floor of the Brooklyn Court House, the judge sits high and straight-backed, framed by two flags and a wooden plaque. She looks up. “Chris,” she says, “we’re ready.” With that a clerk dressed in two shades of olive leaves the room.  He returns with a troop of 24 men and woman, young and old.

“When I call you name line back there, “ he says pointing to the railing that separates the bench from the public seating. He calls the first name and a man with grey speckled hair saunters up. A pregnant woman in stripes follows. Then a man in a burnt orange sweater.

The clerk stumbles on some of the last names and so he chooses to spell them out. When he finishes a selection of people dressed in various states of winter combat – trench coats and padded jackets are standing outside the barricade. One by one the men and women are summoned into a side room where the judge and attorneys have moved to. They are there for two or so minutes. There is not much to do for those waiting in line expect fidget with their bags and stare at the ‘State of New York Unified Court System’ Calendar on the wall. A man in a blue shiny sports shirt sits with his head pined down on the back on his umbrella. Next to him a girl threads her hand through her hair – waiting.  A truck offloading downstairs beeps incessantly, temporarily disrupting the room’s quiet.

“When I call your name step outside,” the clerk announces loudly once everyone has emerged from the side room.  About a dozen people move towards the main door and are gone. The clerk then removes from the top of a side cupboard a brown revolving drum with a handle. He places into it several small pieces of paper and then pushes it hard. It begins to spin.  When it slows down he lifts the drum and gives it several vigorous shakes.  He places it on the desk, opens a little window, picks out a paper and calls a name. He tells those whose names he picks from the drum to sit at the side of the courtroom.

A shorthaired woman with a red top and beige trench takes her seat. She is followed a man with grey hair and glasses.  Once the lottery is over and the seats filled the judge speaks. “The court has provided you with a questionnaire,” she says. She asks each person a barrage of questions.

“What is your educational background?”

“Have you been a witness to a crime?”

“Is there any reason why you can’t sit on this jury?”

The responses come quickly.

“Four years”

“Live with my boyfriend.”

“Junior high”

A man in glasses at the far end of the row starts to respond but is unable to continue.  The courtroom is still. He tries again. After a few attempts he says that he has a stutter. The judge signals to the attorneys and they spring up and gather.

“We are going to excuse you,” the judge says.

She relays a battery of questions to the last few  — the cashier, the dental hygienist and the fashion designer from Greenpoint. The judge turns the floor over to the attorneys.  Both sides, she explains, have 15 minutes to ask questions.

The assistant district attorney, a dark-haired young woman in a severe black suit, goes first.“There is no wrong answer” she begins. She turns to a woman in the front row who had mentioned, during questioning, her boyfriend’s DUI conviction. Does she think that driving laws are too tough?

The district attorney moves on.

“Does anyone watch cop show?” she asks. “CSI?”

The group who had been sitting stiffly become slightly animated. There are nods. She asks if the people need to see videos to find someone guilty. “Probably,” says a young woman with dangly earrings. The assistant district attorney pushes the question further. The young woman perhaps sensing that it is not the right answer demurs saying, “I am not sure.”

Ping. A bell goes off. Her 15 minutes are up.

The defense attorney, a blonde young woman of similar age wearing grey pinstripe is next.

“Has anyone every driven a car after having a drink?” she asks. She holds a sheet of paper in one hand and gesticulates with the other.

“Is anyone involved in Mothers against Drunk Driving or Students Against Drunk Driving?”

She pauses for a moment then asks, “Does your computer ever shut down?  Has it ever had a virus in it?”

She explains that her client is challenging the reliability of Breathalyzer Test. She asks, “Does anyone think that police officers tend to be more accurate then regular people?” There are some headshakes but no one says anything. “So they can make mistakes,” she says softly. Another ping follows and her time is up.The judge announces that she will give the attorneys some time to confer and whittle down the jurors from 12 to eight.

“No challenge, “ the attorneys say after each name until they get to a certain name. The assistant district attorney challenges the choice. “He said he would not necessarily believe that a machine could be accurate,” she says, half rising from her chair. “I can’t remember him making such a blanket statement. Application denied, “ says the judge crisply. They continue.

Out is the shy woman with the dangly earrings. Out is the grey-haired man who doubted the absolute accuracy of Breathalyzers. Out is another girl who was mostly quiet.  The judge reads the lists once more.She stops, looks up and says: “We have a jury.”

Parents walking toward Valentino Pier on a Sunday afternoon, at the corner of Ferris and Coffee street in Red Hook, Brooklyn. (Lea Khayata/The Brooklyn Ink)

By Lea Khayata

On a late weekday afternoon, Valentino Pier Park, in the south west end of Red Hook, looks like any neighborhood park. Kids on their scooters and bikes are playing around the pier while their parents watch over them, enjoying a breathtaking view of the Statue of Liberty, before walking home on cobblestoned Coffey street. Ten years ago, a scene like this would have been impossible in this part of Red Hook.

Coffey street, the epicenter of Red Hook’s gentrification, was practically devoid of children in the past. Now, as more middle-class couples in their late thirties start families, the area is bustling with the shouts of young kids. One block away, the playground of the Red Hook Houses is even noisier, crowded with mostly older, African American or Hispanic children, living in the public housing project that accounts for two-thirds of the neighborhood population. The two crowds of children hardly ever play together.

Rachel Shapiro, a real-estate agent in Red Hook, says the gentrification process goes back 10 years, but she has noticed a change in demographics in the last two or three years, which she describes as a “kid boom”. In ten years, the proportion of white children at the Patrick F. Daly public school more than doubled, to 7 percent from 3 percent.

The block on Coffey street situated between Ferris and Conover street, with its old trees looking down on red brick houses built in 1865, has preserved the charm of Brooklyn’s old neighborhoods while undergoing some massive changes. John McGettrick, easily recognizable by his impressive white handlebar moustache, moved here 22 years ago with his wife, Rosemary, and their 5-year-old son. “He was the first kid on the block in a long time,” he says.

At the time, mostly old people lived on Coffey. “They all died or moved to Florida” says McGettrick. Of the 19 houses, four are still inhabited by the same people today. All the others have seen new owners coming in gradually, attracted by the affordable prices and the nearby waterfront. Today, there are seven children on the block, aged between one and eleven years old, according to McGettrick.

Stacie Merrol, 37, moved on Coffey street a year ago when she was pregnant with her first child. She takes advantage of the relative calm of the late afternoon, when older kids have left, to walk down the pier with her baby sleeping in a stroller. She used to live in Williamsburg. She says this part of Red Hook is “a hidden gem,” a paradise not many people know about. “We met a lot of people with young kids, we didn’t know that before moving in.” she says.

Another mother, Sophie Frey, anticipates a less idyllic experience with her daughter, who just turned one year old. “We’re really happy here, but as she’s going to grow up, here is not the best place to give her values” Frey says. She mentions the foul language children from the houses use in the park, and how their parents talk to them.

McGettrick has heard similar complaints. “Some concerns are legitimate, like petty crime and drug use,” he said, “[It’s] a phenomenon that is not unique to people in public houses, and some [complaints] are excessive.”

Red Hook is in a “holding pattern,” but he remains optimistic: “Children are a sign of hope; it means people consider the neighborhood as safe and nurturing.” But the separation between the children of Coffey street and the ones of the public houses is a reality. “It is not so much racial as economic” McGettrick says, “and they do mingle on some limited occasions”.

The public school, PS15, is common ground for both groups. This year, Stephanie Batcholder made the decision to take the plunge and put 5-year-old Margot in the school.

“I thought Margot would be a private school kid. [But now] she’s a PS15 one.” She says she consulted with some of her friends whose children went to the school two or three years ago and are doing great, but she still feels conflicted: “We all wish we could give back to the community and change things a little bit, but the reality is that a lot of people are scared.”

]]> http://thebrooklynink.com/2010/11/18/19612-the-%e2%80%9ckid-boom%e2%80%9d-in-gentrified-red-hook/feed/ 0 http://thebrooklynink.com/2010/11/17/19493-new-gin-distillery-opens-its-doors-in-sunset-park/ http://thebrooklynink.com/2010/11/17/19493-new-gin-distillery-opens-its-doors-in-sunset-park/#comments Wed, 17 Nov 2010 14:00:37 +0000 Alejandro Lopez de Haro http://thebrooklynink.com/?p=19493 By Camilo Smith

Somewhere in the middle distance between the Gowanus Expressway and the polluted Gowanus Bay lies a small factory where a young man carefully tastes a batch of clear white liquid dripping from metal spouts. There is a strong smell of fermented oats in the air.

It’s gin, it’s all legal and it’s the new face of Brooklyn’s craft liquor industry.

Brad Estabrooke, a former financial industry professional, started his Breuckelen Distillery last August, taking advantage of the New York Assembly’s easing of regulations on the business of booze. The name comes from the original Dutch spelling for Brooklyn. Also, “gin has Dutch origins,” he says.

The March 2009 law, commonly referred to as the micro-distilleries act, allows anyone to purchase an A-1 distiller’s license to produce up to 10,000 gallons per year of spirits. The law requires the producers to use ingredients, which generally include corn, rye or wheat grown in New York State.

“The law was passed because there was a need the legislature saw for these micro-distilleries, on the heels of the microbreweries and wineries. They’re looking at it as economic development,” said William Crowley, the New York State Liquor Authority’s director of public and legislative affairs.

The end benefit goes beyond grain consumption and alcohol production especially if one considers the improvement a plant like Estabrooke’s can bring to the sterile warehouse and industrial zone that lies between the Gowanus Expressway and the mouth of the canal.

His spirits distillery is only the second to be licensed in Brooklyn. The first was South Williamsburg´s whisky producing Kings County Distillery. A third is on the way, in North Brooklyn, called New York Distilling Co.

“If there’s more than one it’s better,” said Easterbrook, who already sees tourism value in Brooklyn’s new distillery culture. He’s been approached by tour companies that make visits to local breweries. “It’s like Sonoma, or Napa. If Brooklyn had this great concentration of distilleries, it’s greater for all of us. “

The distillery holds tastings three days a week for $5 a person (bottles of his Breuckelen Gin cost $35). Most of his clientele are visitors from outside the area, undaunted by the expressway construction nearby. He’s even begun to experiment with whiskey tastings, though he doesn’t sell that liquor.

Brad Estabrooke, right, explains his gin ingredients to customer during a tasting last month at the The Green Grape liquor store in Ft. Greene. (Camilo Smith/The Brooklyn Ink)

Bob Lewis, chief marketing representative at the New York State Department of Agriculture and Markets, said the increase in distilleries signal a greater move toward the “rebirth of food processing “ not only citywide, but especially in Brooklyn.  “ It’s good economically, it’s good between linkage between Upstate and Downstate,” he said.

“Look at this as an area of importance for the future of the city in terms of its jobs, its employment base, its tax base, and for the potential to source products locally, and process them locally.”

Estabrooke gets most of his raw material from a farmer in Newfield, who sends him huge bags of grains that require a forklift to move around.  With a new masher he recently bought, he can turn out 400 gallons of gin in every 24-hour period.

As he works on streamlining his production, he’s purchased new equipment and hired two Brooklynites to help him meet his increasing demand.

Local and national demand for this Sunset Park-based gin has been climbing. Orders come in from as far as Chicago, but the biggest customer is Dry Dock Wine & Spirits in Red Hook. This nine-month-old liquor shop specializes in carrying local brands.  Specialized liquor stores are another business outgrowth from the craft alcohol boon. Breuckelen Gin was the featured product during a tasting there last month.

“It feels like what the Brooklyn micro brewing trend was 15 years ago,” said store owner Ron Kyle.

This specialization of production using organic materials is the way to possibly build a new industry in the area, as the agriculture department’s Lewis said, “A product might have to be more specialized, more attuned to a particular demographic. But that doesn’t have to be an income demographic, it can be an ethnic demographic. More tailored niches than generalized system.”

Upstate New York has a longer recent history with distilleries. Ralph Erenzo is a cofounder of Tuthilltown Spirits, which produces several types of alcohol. He’s aware of the movement in Brooklyn and sees it as positive not just to his industry, but as part of economic the revitalization benefits.

“When I go to Washington, or I go to Albany, to lobby, I rarely talk about whisky. I talk about economic development, jobs in rural areas, entry level jobs where people can learn a craft, and about keeping small farms in operation. And that’s a different thing than liquor,” he said.

“In Brooklyn for instance, the location of a distillery in what would otherwise be viewed as a deteriorated warehouse neighborhood,” he said,  “could stimulate a great deal of tourism visitor traffic, which would then in turn bring with it other service businesses, like cafes, bars, shops.”

There are benefits to local tax coffers as well, Erenzo says a distillery working at capacity can generate over $1 million in taxes every year.

At The Greene Grape Wine and Spirits liquor shop in Ft. Greene, Estabrooke holds one of his local tastings. A neighborhood shopper Josh Renson, 34, takes a sip from a sample cup. “It has a little more going on than your mass produced gin. A little more flavorful,” he says. He walks out with a bottle.

Still, for Estabrooke and his Sunset Park small gin factory it’s not only about the money and his sales. For now he just wants his small business to survive, and thrive. His goal is to up his output to 100 cases of gin a month, and at some point offer different types of whisky. He dips another finger under the spout of his test batch. “The part I like the most is making the stuff.”

On National Coming Out Day in Cobble Hill, the Brooklyn Community Pride Center hosts "Coming Out for Cupcakes." (The Brooklyn Ink/Joi-Marie McKenzie)

“Baby, baby, baby, where did our love go?” Diana Ross’ voice slides over the speakers in Re/Dress Brooklyn, a vintage clothing shop in Cobble Hill.

Three volunteers, wearing coordinated black T-shirts, greeted guests as they came in. While one urged them to pick up flyers promoting the Brooklyn Community Pride Center’s latest programs, another asked for a five-dollar donation. Brooklyn was the last borough in New York to create a center for the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender community. It still doesn’t have a building of its own.

“Everyone just assumed we had one,” said Rachel Stern, a volunteer.

A young woman in a faded navy blue hoodie strolled in from Boerum Place. She took a blue sheet of paper from the rainbow of colored slips displayed on the table next to an assortment of caramel apple, sweet potato pie and pumpkin cheesecake cupcakes from Robicelli’s.

“I feel awkward,” she said to no one in particular. “But I did it.” She scribbled something on the blue slip and handed it to the volunteer.

“We need more people to use orange,” said Amanda, another volunteer from behind the table.

Last night, on National Coming Out Day, the center hosted “Coming Out for Cupcakes,” where people wrote down on colorful slips of paper any element of their lives that they’re too afraid to expose. Later, the sheets were arranged in a rainbow placed in the center’s rented space.

A fallen tree lies on the corner of Washington and Lafayette Avenues (Joi-Marie McKenzie/The Brooklyn Ink)

Twenty-four hours after a tornado swept through Brooklyn, longtime Clinton Hill resident James Randall is picking up the pieces.

The tree that once stood in front of his house and shaded the street now fills his front yard. Its branches cracked his window, broke off a piece of his roof, and knocked over his iron fence.

Clinton Hill resident James Randall tries to clear a pathway in his front yard after a tree was destroyed by a tornado. (Joi-Marie McKenzie/The Brooklyn Ink)

“I was in the basement when the storm came through,” James said. “It sounded like a freight train.”

Still, he feels lucky that the same tree that fell on his neighbor’s car, didn’t come through his front window. “It stopped by some miracle,” James said.

(Joe Proudman/The Brooklyn Ink)

James doesn’t know when the city will help with the clean up. He doesn’t have the tools or the manpower to do it alone.

A dog walks by with one of the tree branches in his mouth, while another neighbor takes a piece of the trunk for her garden.

You’ve never seen so many hands reaching for matzo balls. And then there’s the Kugel: Broccoli Kugel, Butternut squash Kugel, Spinach Kugel, Sweet Noodle Kugel, Apple Cherry Kugel, Apple Blueberry Kugel, Champagne Grape Kugel and Salt and Pepper Kugel for the purist, all packed in neat plastic containers, their names properly visible.

Pomegranate is a warehouse shaped kosher supermarket in Midwood where Yiddish banter is heard instead of easy listening and Mechy, the deli chief, warmly grabs friends by the arm to say hello. Men in yarmulkes and sidelocks carry walkie-talkies and coordinate the stock. They travel from the deli to produce to canned goods – their look of urgency underscoring that it is serious business. Stock is flush but it is not expected to last long.
Thursday was the day before Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and since shopping – and eating – is forbidden from sunset Friday until sunset on Saturday preparations for the pre-fast and break fast meals must be made now. Eighteen-hour days for the delivery crew during the High Holidays are not unusual. Outside is a loading dock with a forklift and crates. Inside, women in long skirts and men in black hats hurry to shop, and prepare.

Some carry lists and shop with brisk efficiency – two yellow peppers, one red pepper, a bag of string beans, six onions, celery and carrots. Others proceed as if without particular meals in mind — two tubs of cream cheese, grape juice economy pack, vegetable oil, Pita Bites, imitation salami, and Weight Watchers Carrot Crème Cake – “just drinks and nosh y’know?” the woman with the cart says.

A man in sidelocks and a black hat silently debates the merits of two types of honey mustard; he picks the one labeled “Three Peppers.”  Teenage girls inquire what happens to leftover sushi – eyeing the Meshuga Roll — and suggest that the market give it to them; they go the deli counter and ask about samples. People on line at the deli counter relay messages from spouses, “He says don’t make the pastrami slices too thick.” Others get lost in conversation and lose their place in line. A woman accelerates too quickly around a corner and almost collides with another shopper as she passes the cantaloupes and banana stands.

At 2:15 pm things are heating up.  A shopper knocks a cherry cheese Danish off a shelf. The day is just beginning. Closing time is not until 1 o’clock in the morning.

The fast begins tonight, at 6:45 p,m., precisely.

Old Park Slope and New Park Slope met today inside a falafel shop at 5th Avenue and 9th Street.

Old Park Slope came in the form of a pair of D.O.T. workers hunched over a tiny table for two. One was a very large man with a handlebar mustache and tattoos all over. His forearms were enormous. The other was smaller—a compact little man with a thick Brooklyn accent and short cropped black hair. They were talking together about cigarettes.

Two svelte mothers represented the New Park Slope. They were sitting at a large table silhouetted by blinding light from the storefront window. They were there with their toddlers, on a lunch date. Their kids were completely out of control.

“I just don’t have a taste for them any more, cigarettes,” the big man said.

“Oh yeah? What happened?” asked the little man.

One of the moms yelped.

“Akasha!” she said, scolding her child, trying her best at calm, cool and collected even though she was clearly agitated. “We don’t go outside, OK? We stay here with mommy.”

The child giggled in her face, ran outside, slapped her hands on the storefront window, put her lips to the glass and ballooned her cheeks like Dizzy Gillespie.

“Akashaaa!”

“I’m telling you man, they’re gross,” the big D.O.T. worker continued, unfazed by the clatter. “My wife, she smokes the same cigarettes that I do. Camel Reds. I’m telling you man, we used to smoke in inside, at our place. We were cleaning the other day and we wiped down the windows. They were just covered with this…this gook, this stuff. Gross man. It was gross.”

“Yeah, and you know what?” the little man cut in, “all that gross stuff on the windows, that goes right in your lungs.”

The big man shook his head in disgust.

“Thomas! Thomaasssss!” the other mom yowled. Thomas and Akasha and Akasha’s sister were crawling around under the tables. One knocked over a chair. THWACK! The big man looked back like Big Foot—he didn’t turn his neck, he turned his whole torso.

The D.O.T. workers exchanged a look.

Then Thomas darted outside.

“Thomaaasss!”

Apparently, the game the kids were playing was called run outside even though mommy says not to.

“So I told her right there,” the big man said, referring to his wife, “No more! Not in the house. I’m done. If you want to smoke, you gotta do it outside.”

“Right on,” his buddy said.

Just then all three kids made a collective break for it. They flew out the door, laughing hysterically. The moms rushed into action, jumped out of their seats and wrangled the pipsqueaks into their arms. Six suspended legs kicked about wildly.

“Nooo! No noooo!” they protested.

“That’s it,” one of the moms said, holding a child with a sinewy arm. “You guys have pushed it too far.”

“You want to get the check?” she said in exasperation to the other mother.

“Yes.”

The D.O.T. workers wiped their mouths with paper napkins.

“Alright. Wanna go do that thing in Gowanus?” the big man said to the little man, rising from his seat like a leviathan.

“Yeah, let’s go do that thing in Gowanus,” the little man replied.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” the one mom called out sing-songingly to man at the cash register at the other end of the restaurant. “We need the check.”

An ear-splitting roar blasted its way through the mid-morning Brownsville silence, sending the flock of birds pecking around Betsy Head Park into a fluttering, flapping frenzy and turned the heads of the two girls sitting on the picnic table. No one knew where it came from.

It had started as a low rumble, drowning out the patter of the men on the corner as they debated the day’s pressing concerns with impassioned hand gestures and rueful head
shaking.

“Back the day, it was a sweet thing, it was peaceful,” said a man with a salt-and-pepper
Afro. “There were gangs back then, but it was peaceful.”

The rumble had been building by the time a police car from the 73rd precinct rolled up.
The officer in the passenger’s seat exchanged a laconic glare with the men on the corner.

The sound built. and built. and then came the roar.

It came from a cinderblock garage nestled in the midst of row houses with
well-manicured gardens festooned by Caribbean flags. Then the car emerged. It  was a
rusting, red hulk of a 70s hatchback with massive tires. Its chassis hovered a full
two-feet above the pavement. Its hood was topped with a blinding chrome engine. Three
men in grease-stained overalls, followed in its wake, cheering.

The car screeched past the park, past the men on the corner, who turned their heads as
they followed it down the block. Slowly, the roar became a faint hum.
“Jackass,” said the man with the salt-and-pepper Afro.

The three men retreated to the garage. The two girls began complaining again about the
kids at the Brownsville Recreation Center. “People from the projects go there, and they
don’t have any home training,” one girl said. “I’ve been in those project buildings
plenty of times, no matter how many times you bleach those stairs, they’ll smell like
piss.”

But her complaints were drowned out. First came the roar. Then came the car, its journey
around the block at a quick end.