My Street

A Story by redzone

...true story...

My Street
(A true Story)

As many of you know, I live in NYC. Brooklyn to be exact. I moved here from Philadelphia, Pa, a city of Americana significance, and phony as hell. “The City of Brotherly Love”. The “City of Neighborhoods”, where hate has a breathing heart and neighborhood reality is apartheid and separation.

I moved to NYC in 2010 due to the economic down turn of 2008-2009. I knew there were no jobs in Philly and hoped one would find me in NYC. But at 63, hope and reality had different ideas when it came to work. So, after the severance and unemployment ran out I was forced to “retire” early.

For 8 months, I lived in Manhattan (on 1st Ave and 16th) and volunteered at Revolution Books (great bookstore that now resides uptown in Harlem). I lived with my dear friend H who recently broke up with her longtime partner J (he was also a good friend) and who had recently lost her father. It was a good fit as I helped her grieve and she helped me adjust to the pace of NYC. It was not a “friends with benefits” thing, just a sharing of the human comfort we both needed. If there was a “love” interest, it was with her cat Mickey- yes he loved Minnie Mouse, at least according to the stories I told him when he sat on my lap. He loved those stories, or was it the treats I gave him… HA!

In the fall of 2010, I moved to Brooklyn, Crown Heights section and right across the street from The Arboretum. There are several good stories about living on Washington Ave, but that will be for another time. I loved that place, but circumstances changed and I moved to the Bushwick area of Brooklyn in 2012. I live on L street (not real name as the internet has way too many eyes for my taste). It’s a nice street, not far from food store, laundromat and subway stop, and has trees. In the middle of the bock is a small playground type space with picnic tables and kid’s stuff as well as one of those lower rim basketball nets. I live across the street in a 4-story apt building. It has 17 apts (4 on each floor plus one basement), and I live on the first floor in the back. It’s not bad, not modern either, nice. Only complaint is that for some reason the internet and my phone is sometimes a bit spotty. It might be some kind of black hole area since when I walk out front everything works fine.

So, this as intro leads me to a story from “L street’s black hole”. I live with two friends. It’s a good arrangement (and unless you have a s**t load of money coming in every week, NO ONE lives alone anywhere in NYC. It’s almost become a law written down somewhere. Thou shall have roommates!! And like all those other commandments it’s the death penalty for noncompliance.) But it’s a good arrangement since everything is shared, cooking, cleaning, chores, and we get along.

This story is about the Puerto Rican family that lives on the first-floor front. It’s A and her husband P (who doesn’t speak much English), grandparents to a few kids also living in this apt. These kids and some of their cousins, friends and girlfriends often hang out on the front inside steps, playing music, smoking a bit of sweet herb, having fun… regular kids’ stuff. They range in age from 12 to 16,17. They are fun, funny and sometimes I just poke my head out and say hi.

At first they were shy, mistrustful. I mean being white and old has a lot of draw backs. But this one time I was coming home from a really great event at Rev Books, it was around 11:30, and there were like 10 or 12 teens packed into this steps area, smoking some weed, laughing. As I approached, they hid the smokes, but the sweet doobie aroma was thick in the air. I said something like, wow this takes me back, some high times before bed. They all laughed and called me “old school papi” and asked if I wanted a hit. I said thanks, but no. Enjoy yourselves. This broke the ice, kind of funny to be sure. These are great kids, respectful of each other, yeah some macho stuff but not as much as you would think. And they all had dreams of going to college, getting decent jobs, having families and living nice. I loved hearing about these dreams on the occasions I got to talk to them.

One of these young people was a cousin and the nephew of A & P. He was maybe 20-21at the time. He was still living at home with his parents out in Queens. He had a job and was going to school at night. He helped a lot at home and in his neighborhood. He was loved and liked for doing odd jobs and errands for people and family in the neighborhood. Just one of those nice kids. I only met him a couple of times when he visited and hung out on the front steps. I remember he had bright dancing eyes that smiled when he talked. He was a good kid.

On Oct. 13th, Arno Alvarez Agular was found in his room. Someone had shot him in the back of the head. Killed at 22. A life snuffed out before it could get started. On Sat 15th, I took up a small collection with the roomies and went to the store and got a platter of sandwiches made up along with some soda and juice and gave it to the family. Friends and family were coming and going and we thought this would be a good way to show our respects as well as help out with feeding everyone. A & P’s place was where everyone was gathering since no one wanted to be in the house where he had died. They came here to grieve for and remember Arno Alvarez Agular.

Since then, his mom and dad (C & A) have been staying here with A & P until they can face going back home again. Family and friends have also been coming and going, grieving and hanging out to find support and strength. Out in the front of the building to one side there is a memorial to Arno. Flowers, pictures (though taken down due to recent rain), candles of all shapes and sizes, other mementoes and reminders of his life have been there for people to see and add too. I think this has become somewhat a custom with so many of our young people taken from us. we have become a nation of memorials…

Because of the small act of sharing their grief, I have become an honorary member of the family. Last night when I got home from doing laundry I met Arno’s dad A. He gave me a big hug, thanked me for being kind and ushered me inside the apt for a plate of rice and beans. We shared memories of Arno, though A did most of the talking. This is the second time now that this has happened. I consider myself extremely lucky and have come to think of this family, their loss and suffering as my own. I get my social security check today and this coming Sat I am going to the grocery store to get the fixings to make them a home cooked African Peanut soup. I make it pretty good and I know it will get eaten up quickly.

We live in a world of horror, filled with unthinkable terror, suffering and death. And yet, amidst all this hardship and pain, there is great beauty and potential for a whole new society. A society of voluntary associating humanity lives and thrives. No not perfect or without loss, but one where we live and share with each other the good and bad all over the globe. In writing this story of real life I hope I have shown some of this potential. These are not special people, just common folk, regular people. We are of different nationalities, cultures, a diverse mix and we see each other as human beings, as community, as family.

Aztec Warrior/redzone 10.26.16
(Further note: I imagine this is way too long so I am happy you got this far. It is not intended for publication or anything other than just my story to you, so thank you for reading. Apologies for not having any pictures to go with.)

© 2016 redzone

Author's Note

...thanks for reading... I wrote this for a challenge at Apollo Blessed, a wonderful poetry site, to write something, a story, poem, pictures, etc. about the street you live on. This is the story that I posted there.

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Reviews

Monica Chen

I really enjoyed the sense of humor you displayed in the recount of your struggles and how you became part of community on the street you live on by being patient when the young adults were wary of you and compassionate to a family when they needed support over such a loss - overall, this was a very touching story and I really enjoyed reading it!

Posted 8 Years Ago

Papaya

This was a very touching story. There are too many memorials. I see them here too.
A tragedy like this affects not just a family but a community. From the shared grief we see people's bonds strengthen. We are human. There is hope. I believe in the good in people. I know people say that all the time, but I think if you even just one little spark of goodness in someone then there is hope. I really enjoyed this Curt. Thanks so much for sharing.