My Life In Brooklyn

My husband was on the roof a couple of days ago and found a bullet.  He measured it (using a knitting tool I have that determines diameter of knitting needles) and sure enough, it seems to be a 9mm.

This was likely a “shooting into the air” incident — yet again proving “what goes up must come down.”  The tricky part is, of course, avoiding the area where the landing zone is.  This is our first rooftop bullet in the five years we have been here and I am not pleased about it.

Just because I have been watching this building slowly deteriorate.  This is the most recent pic, as of this morning.

Frankly, this tactic — allowing buildings to passively deteriorate until they HAVE to be removed — is worse than annoying.   Someone should make owners responsible, or help them.  But to allow this is bad for the community, the new building that will replace it is bound to be ugly and out of context.

Someone needs to step in here.

Past posts on this one:

http://mylifeinbrooklyn.com/2006/09/13/shameful-195-hawthorne/

http://mylifeinbrooklyn.com/2007/01/10/hawthorne-revisited/

Not long after we moved here five years ago we had an Incident In Front of the House.  This took form of someone who had parked their car on the street, directly below my bedroom window, locked it, and went to do whatever on another street.  It was a Mercedes with PA plates.  For some reason the car alarm went off and essentially remained that way for almost 24 hours.  The car alarm was in fact a honking car horn.  After countless calls to the 71st Precinct by not only myself but many neighbors, the 71st finally sent a car — oh, about 18 hours after the noise began and maybe 8-9 hours after the first telephone calls.  The officers pulled up to the car, noted the noise and could not figure out how to get the car open to shut the alarm off.  Instead, they wrote a citation and left.  A mere 6 hours later the owner of the car tossed the citation into the gutter and drove away.

The result?   Well, first on the agenda, we switched our bedroom (front of the house) with the office (back of the house) and have never once regretted that decision.

Next, I mentioned it to our Community Liaison Officer, a nice enough fellow, who assured me this “should have been taken care of” by the Precinct.  Fine.

So in the wee hours of THIS Sunday morning I had a strange dream.  I was being hit by something over and over again and it hurt.  As it so often in dreams it was all fuzzy, but as I awoke it was easy to realize that in fact it was a car horn issue once more.

Yes, this time it was a Nissan Maxima.  My husband headed out to have a look, it (again) had PA plates and had some questionable stickers affixed to the windshield, mostly scraped off, but with some artifacts indicative of a NY connection.

As it happened I was mostly working yesterday, under a deadline for a project.  Which mean I was in the office in the front of the house getting the full impact of the car alarm.  This time the car was parked in front of 66 Fenimore, almost at the Flatbush intersection.

I called the 71st Precinct three times, each time I was promised they would “send a car” over.  Nothing.  It would be my assumption that others might have called as well, but who knows. 

Late last night the alarm became more intermittent and it was my earnest hope the battery would be dead.  It really didn’t seem like an unfair request to me. I finally was able to sleep with a pillow over my head, my husband wore sound-blocking headphones to sleep. Really.

This morning, coffee in hand I was cautiously optimistic, and there was a silence, though the alarm started again shattering any hope of it being over. However, as I now post this, it has stopped, I think the battery may be dead! Yay!

So have a look at the video clip below, grabbed yesterday by my husband.  Imagine hearing that for 24 hours.  Only louder.  I feel robbed.  Thanks for all the help 71st Precinct, glad to know your feelings about quality of life issues.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mor5mPSYoU

Yesterday I posted a message about the stolen plant(s) on my local neighborhood Yahoo Group, describing the pot and linking to a picture.  I asked for anyone to please let me know if they had seen anything the day before.

When Llewellyn came home yesterday after a long day at work we drove around the neighborhood looking for the missing flowers.  We knew full well only a total idiot would leave them in a front yard, but it was part of the process.  So Llew slowly drove on every street beteen Lefferts and Rogers from Lefferts Ave (north) to Parkside (south) as we carefully investigated front yard gardens.  As we thought no luck at all — though we were rewarded with a lot of strange looks from residents who were out and about.  At best the plant has to be in someone’s back yard, this is no house plant by any means.

It did make me aware of what an amazing display of plants were in our front yard, lots of yards are really tacky, no plants at all (though I can understand why), sometimes totally concrete with illegal parking spaces created in the front yard. 

After arriving home there was a message for me on the Yahoo Group.  Someone had seen the guy with my plant walking East on Midwood Street Monday evening, toting it in some kind of grocery/laundry cart.  I think tonight we will take another drive further down Midwood, just to see.  And maybe again next week when the perp thinks it is safe to place out front.

This Yahoo message was a huge relief to me.  I had spent most of yesterday harboring suspicions toward everyone on the street — Llewellyn suggested it could be a follow-up reminder after the rat incident.  I was even thinking it could be the New York Times delivery guy who does use a car and has been forgetting to leave a paper at least once a week, necessitating phone calls of complaint.  Anyway the fact it was not someone on my own block provided some comfort.

A local neighborhood guy who serves as a liaison to the police said I should call it in to the precinct.  I see that as a waste of time, but maybe I ought to do it anyway.  Just not ready to let go of this yet.  But seriously there is a major drug problem on my corner, and if they don’t even bother to respond to my calls about that, about a guy entering a warehoused apartment without authorization, noise issues, what the hell can I expect from New York’s Finest on a mere plant theft?

Answer:  Zero, nada, nothing.

The first year I started to working with my back-yard garden and the front-yard containers it was an experiment.  I wanted green and beauty and life around me and each of those were indeed the results of what was really a little effort and some money.  And care of course.

After a year of gardening, the unexpected happened also: my discovery that nurturing plants through weeding, watering, feeding provided food for my soul too — a sense of serenity and well-being.  Now my garden is a haven of (usually) quiet: a place to read or meditate, or sit with Llewellyn to speak about our respective days.  Sometimes coffee and newspapers in the morning, othertimes watching the sun set and seeing the lightening bugs flash around us.  For me there is a sense of continuity being in the garden.  It takes me to many childhood days — whenthe honeysuckle blooms the fragrance reminds me of my grandmother’s house in Holyoke. And so on.

That is why this morning when I looked at my front yard containers and saw one missing it broke my heart.  This was the container of Rudbeckia, nutured from seed I love their fuzzy foliage and the brilliant blooms were just beginning.  But, someone stole the entire container, which was large (20″ pot, 3′ high with plants) and quite heavy — my guess is premeditated with a car.  I went inside and had a good cry, called Llewellyn, had another good cry, walked around the neighborhood streets in case it was a stupid thief (no luck) then returned home and moved everything else into the back yard.

Thanks for ripping out my soul, asshole. I hope you rot in hell.

There have been some interesting views, a division essentially, on what is apparently a neighborhood fixture: a guy who sells drums, fans, and other Afro centric articles.  Evidently this guy, who is said to be homeless and an unlicensed street vendor, usually sells his items on Canal Street, but has recently been camped out on Lincoln Road in front of the Prospect Park subway station.

Some people have expressed annoyance at his lewd commentary toward women, public urination, noise, garbage, etc.  Others are defending him.

But the bottom line is if you happen to live, say, across the street from where this fellow is camped out there is certainly nothing good about it.  Personally I could care less about licensing, or the items he sells.

Behavior does concern me.  I still cannot comprehend people thinking lewdness is okay. Nor the public urination, which is — pardon the expression — a personal pet peeve of mine.  Okay, assuming the guy is actually homeless I can understand the necessity for public urination.  But the park is across the street from his current “campsite” why not just be a good fellow and do the neighborhood a favor.

On my street public urination is rampant.  And it has nothing to do with homelessness.  It has to do with laziness and convenience.  The first year I moved to this street I dubbed the tree in front of my house the “pee tree” and though we have since pruned the tree and added more outdoor lights to discourage using the tree as a pee station, I still wear heavy-duty gloves to plant or weed the tree pit.

The first year I lived here, I went outside when I saw males approach the tree.  I even saw two women direct their children toward the tree pit and begin to pull the pants off the kids — a behavior I rudely interrupted; suggesting perhaps a spot in the gutter would be an improvement since at least the city cleans the gutter three times a week.

“Why not, dogs do it?” the women angrily asked me.

“Are you putting yourself on the same level as dogs?” I asked.

They essentially told me to fuck off, which was fine with me.  Not for the first time and probably not the last.  Food for thought for everyone and the tree pit was pee-free that day. 

Now also on my street is a hair braiding salon and a regular hair salon located next door to each other.  Some of the women who work in these places bring along their children and leave them outside to play on the street.  It is not uncommon to see 6-8 kids playing out on the street all day long.  Unsupervised little kids aged 2 - 8.  These little kids are public pee-ers in training as well as being under the influence by the local thugs.  Perhaps it is disruptive for the kids to enter the salon to use the toilet. One was hit by a car a couple years ago — seriously what does it take for people to learn having a five year old baby-sit a two year old is not a good idea.

I understand cultural differences, I do.  Really.  But people also need to adapt to the laws and conventions of their adoptive country.  And people need to look after and train their children.

Sorry, I have no plans to lower my expectations. Politically incorrect? Maybe, but I don’t care.

On July 16 the Flatbush - Empire Ave Merchant’s Association (FEMA) held their annual street fair. 

I usually do a “walk about” though honestly I haven’t been inspired to buy anything.  However I was slightly tempted by a tee-shirt design this year, though decided it was way too hot to bother.

Anyway, so no traffic on that section of Flatbush, of course (from Empire to Parkside Ave) and after – I think it may have been 7 pm this year – the fair ends and status quo resumes.

On my street, however, there were 70+ people gathered in front of the drug dealers building and a party continued until midnight.  Mind you none of the drug dealers actually live in this building nor do the other party attendees, it is a gathering place that the police appear to allow.  I called the police three times, my neighbors called many times as well.  Nothing. Oh a couple cruisers drove by and I saw one even stop and chat, but not a word suggesting dispersal or toning down the noise.  Among other “activities” there was a loud and active dice game; and residual effects included lots of public urination, garbage, and broken bottles.  The party continued until well after midnight, in smaller but still notable numbers.  Since I went to bed I cannot say when it finally ended.  Below is a photo of a small part of the party:

Now the truck you see to the left in the image was strange.  First of all it is a filthy dump truck, a small one — not being judgemental here, that is the nature/function of such a truck.  However, at the end of the FEMA fair I watched some guys — presumably the truck owner(s) – load up all kinds of tables, food, cooking devices into it.  That white bit you can see at the top of the truck is a propane tank for cooking. Yeah, they were selling food at the street fair, caveat emptor people.  Once the truck was loaded they all joined the ongoing party.

I love that we get double-speak from the precinct.  Always telling us to call in when there are problems, and treating us like we are an annoyance or ignoring us when we do.

A few days ago I wrote about the drug dealers on this street and the incident of Big Guy essentially breaking into the apartment, probably not for the first time and likely for “business” related dealings.

What I didn’t mention is that I later contacted the local precinct about it.  And not anonymously. And yeah I know about anonymous, but I also feel anonymous is a free pass to nonresponse in many cases. Sad to say I have zero confidence in the precinct.  Oh, there is a lot of rhetoric about people like myself, as citizens, calling in illegal activities.  But the verbal spew we hear from the police is, in general, far different from the actual response.  Neighbors tell me this particular corner has been a drug sales location for twenty years.

I don’t really wish to point a finger here.  All I can say is I reported this to the precinct on Friday.  And yesterday when I went to water the plants there was a big fat rat with a severed head lying under the spigot located on the side of the house in the driveway.  People in the neighborhood know I alone water the front yard plants.  Most people also know we have security cameras in the front of the house.  In the four plus years I have lived here I have never even seen a rat nor evidence of a rat.  So maybe I am being paranoid, but maybe I have been warned.

No rat photos, sorry but way too disgusting.

Every year I’ve been adding more and more gardening containers to the ten-foot concrete and fenced in area that is called my front yard.  Yes, the pee tree out on the sidewalk offers a goodly space as well by way of the tree pit, but that is much riskier to work with, as it is necessary to dodge all kinds of cultural artifacts that appear within its boundary.  I keep adding more containers, fill them up with potting soil and try to encourage plants to grow.  It actually gives me a great deal of pleasure and often, in the cool of the evening, I sit on the stoop and enjoy the healthy green.

This was the situation Friday evening.  My husband LL and I sat on the stoop enjoying – well life I guess – when we noticed a big guy across the street duck into my neighbors yard and commence climbing over the scaffold that has been temporarily erected while the façade of his brownstone is being improved.

Allow me to mention that the building next to the scaffolded house is our “problem building.”  Drug dealers hang out there all day long peddling their wares, and though most do try to keep business hours, there are those on the night shift too.  They are a  noisy, profane, crew who are well organized, you can see the same cars (read: customers)  frequently stop to buy, characterized by the window-rattling bass playing on the car radios.  There is also a basketball hoop in front of this building, and though folks in Carroll Gardens received huge fines for flower barrels blocking the sidewalk, in our case the police seem to think this hoop is just fine.  Even when there is a rowdy game at two a.m.  The sidewalk space in front of Problem Building is also known to host impromptu dice games, all-night stoop parties and bar-be-cues. Aside from the noise/nuisance factor these events translate into garbage, broken bottles and our front yards used as urinals. This building contains a warehoused apartment (meaning it is empty and not being rented for some reason) on the first floor.  It’s been empty for quite a few months now. The only other fact worth mentioning is there is an alley between Problem Building and Scaffolded Building that is enclosed by a tall iron fence which is locked.

And so we sat on the stoop and watched Big Guy climb the scaffolding and deftly hop over into the alley. We didn’t think much of it because there are frequent incidents of basketballs being lost in that area and the fence climbing to retrieve the ball is fairly common.  But Big Guy didn’t look for a basketball at all.  Instead, two giant strides and a practiced leap had Big Guy standing on the concrete window sill of the warehoused apartment.  Another jump and we watched Big Guy dive head first into the empty apartment in what seemed to be an excellent gymnastics maneuver through the upper half of the window we now realized was open.  He was inside the empty apartment – Big Guy, mind you, does not live in Problem Building at all.

LL and I exchanged glances of pure astonishment.  There was a sense of admiration in the physical capability of Big Guy, but then he was also breaking and entering at the same time.  We watched, our eyes observing both the now open window top and the front door.  We waited 2-3 minutes, and though LL suggested perhaps all Big Guy really needed was a bathroom stop, he did emerge from the front door of Problem Building.  He glanced around, catching the eye of two lackeys, each did a quick look about to see who might be observing and they all entered the front door, presumably to utilize the empty apartment.  Perhaps for a shareholder’s meeting.

This is my life in Brooklyn.  One part of it anyway.