These days, my daily routine consists of riding my bike up Dean Street and passing through some of the most diverse neighborhoods Brooklyn has to offer-- Boerum Hill, Park Slope, Prospect Heights, Crown Heights-- and finally arriving in Bed Stuy, the neighborhood to which I recently relocated my office. It's a ride that I've really come to enjoy because it offers a glimpse into the side of Brooklyn that people have seemingly forgot. Not the Brooklyn that's been packaged and sold as a lifestyle brand, but the Brooklyn that people actually live and work in. The neighborhood in which my office was formerly located-- Dumbo-- never quite felt like a real neighborhood. Despite the nice coffee shops and cobble-stoned streets, traveling through Dumbo often felt like listening to NPR-- smart and sophisticated, but very produced... make of that what you will (note to reader: I actually love NPR, I just couldn't think of another metaphor that worked).
As I rode my bike this past Monday morning, the sun cast long shadows on the ground and birds fluttered about, chirping loudly. Late August is one of my favorite times of year. The air is infused with sleepy urgency, and the entire world seems to move deliberately in slow motion. On this particular morning, a couple of people in suits were headed to the subway but most others seemed satisfied to sip their coffee and wander lazily about. A cool breeze blew, hinting of the seasonal changes just around the corner.
My trance, however, was broken by a large and very dilapidated truck bouncing down the street. The roar of it's engine assured that no one would be taken by surprise at it's approach, and with each pothole it struck, it seemed as though the entire vehicle might come apart in cartoonish fashion. Already stopped at a red light, I pulled myself back a couple of feet to allow this cacophonic monstrosity to pass. But rather than pass, the truck gave off a long tortured squeal of the brakes, and slowed down in front of me. A large, unshaven man hung his head out the window and screamed in a gravelly voice, "BIG MOMMA, I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU BIG MOMMA. I SWEAR I DO BABY. OHH BIG MOMMA."
To my left a middle-aged woman pushing a laundry cart passed by. She had, it must be said, a fairly large posterior, and it was clear that this was, this must be, Big Momma. With chin held high, she made a valiant attempt at ignoring him...but it was for naught.
"OH BIG MOMMA, YOU BEAUTIFUL. C'MON NOW. C'MON NOW, YOU BEAUTIFUL. GIVE ME SOME OF THAT BIG MOMMA".
Big Momma proudly lifted her chin a bit higher in the air, pretending she couldn't hear him. And then, as suddenly as he arrived, the driver stuck his head back in the window, slammed on the gas and in a cloud of exhaust, took off down the street.
As the smoke cleared and a semblance of peace returned, Big Momma continued on her way, the squeaky wheels of her cart and chirping birds calling attention to the sudden reemergence of silence. I edged myself forward a bit, leaning over the handle bars, partly to make sure the truck was gone, and partly to see if what I had just witnessed was in fact real. Indeed, it was. Bumping and bouncing along, I could see the big rig moving toward whatever unenviable destination awaited it.
And painted on the back of the truck, in robust letters, were the words: "The Velvet Touch Moving Company, for all your moving needs".
Ahh, irony. Thank you Bed Stuy. And thank you Big Momma. And thank you truck driver. Brooklyn may be packaged and sold, but it's good to know that even in the most perfectly polished borough of New York, there's still some good old-fashioned, honest, ugly weirdness to be found.
