Too Close for Comfort

It was a typical New York summer morning, you know, hot, muggy and the air had the thick charge of war. Last night was not a typical Friday night, though. The sounds of battle were louder than usual. The gunfight, the police sirens glaring and the urgency of the ambulance’s lights seemed closer. The popping of gunfire kept me sitting at the edge of the bed, curled up in a corner. It goes on for what seems like hours. The noise constantly going and the sounds of timber popping in the fire! I don’t know if I could go out there and do that.

Next morning, I head outside for some air. Sitting on the front stoop waiting for what – I don’t know – just staring off into space. My mother comes out a few minutes later sees me sitting there. What’s the matter? The sounds last night kept me up. Don’t worry, that was far away – it won’t affect you, she comforts me. With these words, I forget about the Skull’s battle last night.

The day goes by so quickly, my mind drifting. I don’t even remember what I did that day.

Sunday morning my mom quickly loads us kids into the Kermit-the-Frog green 1972 Chevy Station Wagon.

Every third Sunday of the month, always at six am, we would head down to Hunts Point market. The point, as it’s reputation precedes it, was an unusual sigh of relief from this war zone. It was full of activity and life, unlike this neighborhood.

As we pull away from the house & round the corner, the sights of the South Bronx come into view. Along Southern Blvd I see building after building burned to the ground. The unlucky ones that did not burn or collapse, stood like hollowed out skeletons with an empty stare. This created a field of ruble, among empty shells of the past, that my older brother and I would use as our playground.

We were one of the lucky ones. Our block, on Dawson Street, was one of the few that were not destroyed from the usual fires.

Each of the houses on our block were owned by normal folks and as such did not suffer the demise of the ones owned by the slumlords. One of my friends, that lived on 163 St, lost his home this way.

Finally going under the Bruckner Expressway overpass, we entered the Hunt’s Point section of the Bronx. Proceeding along Hunt’s Point Ave, we arrive at the Point.

I love this place! Here I see my mother’s true ability of negotiation. Her strongest virtue is her ability to haggle with the vendors to buy cases of carrots, oranges and tomatoes. She would work them down to the point where the guys would say, lady! I give up – I can’t go that low. At that instant, she would say, OK kids lets move on! She would take a small step forward and start walking away. Sure enough, the vendors would stop her and a strange thing would happen. Her eyes would light up and she would get this look on her face, she knew she’s got them. As she turns around, she would add, I will only take it, if you throw in two pint of strawberries. Sure enough she would get it and we would be satisfied for the rest of the day of shopping.

Eating berries and playing safe, innocent kids games on the loading dock of the Point.

Safety among the chaos of the city.