Day 4: Once More, With Feeling

I got back to Manhattan from South Jersey late in the afternoon; Akeem and I were victims of bad planning and a surprisingly stringent Greyhound schedule. I was to meet up with Desmond and Kevin in our old neighborhood that day, and as soon as I got into the subway system, I said goodbye to my younger brother and hopped aboard the Q train. As the train cruised over the Manhattan Bridge, I got hit by memories in waves. Every spot where the train bumped or swayed, every place that required a little extra balance was exactly where I remembered them. And even though I live close enough to the Pacific Ocean these days to not be as impressed by it, there was something comforting and awe-inspiring about crossing the East River into Brooklyn.

It felt like home.

Even though the skyline along the Brooklyn Waterfront had changed a bit in the eight years I’d been gone, enough of it felt familiar to be welcoming. And about 15 minutes after the bridge, the Q pulled into the Church Avenue station. Good old Flatbush was upstairs and waiting for me.

I was supposed to meet Desmond and his brother, Eric (who we called “Little” because we also hung out with a bigger, taller, and older dude named Eric) at their father’s place on Ocean Avenue, which was around the corner from where we grew up. That block was a cluster of pre-war buildings with spacious apartments designed for raising families. Ernie, Desmond’s dad, lived alone in a 3-bed/2-bath apartment that he inherited from his mother. Back in the day, their whole family lived in that apartment; the place had an inviting vibe and buzzed with life. These days it was quieter, a different brand of inviting, an oasis of sorts. When I arrived, Eric’s pet boxer jumped on me and attacked with enthusiastic sniffs and licks, and while we waited for Kevin to show up, we watched Iron Fist on Netflix.

Once Kev showed up, we decided to grab some pizza. Since Franco’s, our favorite pizza place growing up, had long ago closed and turned into a Dunkin Donuts, we settled on our second favorite—Angelo’s on Cortelyou Road. When we were kids, it was the only pizza place that sold lasagna pizza, and it had arcade gamed to boot. I wasted tons of calories on garlic knots, zeppole, and lasagna pizza at that place, and I must have spent hundreds of dollars in quarters on Mortal Kombat, Street Fighter 2, and Samurai Shodown.

As we walked to Angelo’s, we passed my old apartment building, where Leander still lived. There had been some changes since I’d been there last. The wall in the lobby had been knocked down on either side of the front door, and two large windows replaced it (I later found out that those windows had always been there, but were bricked over in the early 80’s when the neighborhood became “unsafe”). A tan awning with the building number—312—now hung over the doorway. The building looked stately, almost luxurious, and that was no small feat considering the neighborhood’s last 25 years.

As the four of us waited for Leander to come out, a white lady in her early-to-mid 50’s exited the building to walk her dog. I had heard that white people had slowly moved into this part of Flatbush, even saw a few peppered in the area. But the stark reality of a Caucasian woman walking out of 312 was one that I was in complete denial of until I saw it firsthand.

Gentrification, ladies and gentlemen.

The lady was quite friendly on this beautiful summer day. The first thing she mentioned was that the landlord unbricked windows so the building’s elderly could have a nice seating area while they waited for Access-A-Ride, or relatives, or whatever. And it brightened the lobby. She asked me who I was and I introduced myself. I told her I grew up in 312, that my family had an apartment for 35 years. I spent more of my life there than anywhere else. This was Home. My new friend was delighted to hear that; she loved the neighborhood and the building, and it was great for her to meet someone who had roots there. We shared our experiences on what Flatbush was when I lived there and what it became. We talked about the good and bad, how the building’s trash disposal methods hadn’t eliminated the rodent problem, and how this was a beautiful place to live, even with the warts of an area that we both hoped would never fully gentrify. As she finished walking her dog, she invited me inside, so that I might take a closer look at the place I called home for most of the first 30 years of my life.

I said no, and told her that I hoped she found the joy here that I did.

Leander had come out by then, and the five of us went to get pizza. Along the way, we talked about the neighborhood’s evolving dynamic. The police presence, which was all over the place in the early and mid-90’s when late-night gunfire was a regular occurrence, seemed less noticeable and intrusive with the influx of white people. A Crunch Fitness was under construction near where Foot Locker used to be. A hotel was near completion just steps away from the recently renovated Kings’ Theatre. Our favorite Chinese restaurant had changed owners, names, and menus. Angelo’s Pizza was still the same, though. Mostly. The arcade games were long gone, but there was still a slice of lasagna pizza in the display case. Angelo’s son had taken over the business some years back, and he seemed amused to see old neighborhood kids in the shop.

Then again, we’re not kids anymore. And even Angelo’s son was at least our age.

Dinner came and went, and we moved on to the night’s main event: filming Kev’s podcast. Kevin interviewed Desmond first and talked about his martial arts career, the lessons he learned from training, and what it was like to compete on an international stage. Then it was my turn, and we talked about writing and the books I’ve published and what’s coming down the pipe. We parted ways after that. Desmond and I both had planes to catch the next day. We gave the crew daps and bro-hugs and promised to get together more frequently, whatever we needed to do to make it happen.

I spent the night at Akeem’s place, and in the morning said my goodbyes. I always appreciate him letting me crash with him when I’m in town, and he’s grown into a good dude. I made my way to Canarsie and crashed on my sister’s couch for the day. She drove me to the airport that evening and gave me a hug goodbye, and a couple of hours later I was airborne and westbound.

I spent the next five and change hours contemplating recent events. While this trip was months in the planning, it came during some personal rough spots, and I appreciated the time away from my life. I thought about the person I was when I lived in Brooklyn eight years ago—and while I visited—and the person I’ve become since the move to Bellingham. In Brooklyn, I was young, invincible, and immune to the idea of failure. It was a highly pressurized environment that encouraged risk-taking. Bellingham is much more relaxed and laid-back; it’s a more forgiving locale. Somewhere along the last eight years, I became a product of my environment, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing in and of itself; but being home again was like taking a dip in all the things I liked best about myself when I lived there.

I’m too old to be the person I used to be. But I’m too young to allow life to happen without my input. I love who I used to be, and I like where I am now.

Perhaps the next version of me will be somewhere in between.

#2017 #Food #Family #Brooklyn #NewYorkCity #friends #interview #vacation #distractions #Netflix #warmweather #videogames #author