Hunts Point is the only place in the So Bronx that, despite it’s reputation, feels safe. During the day, at the point, forklifts move everything around; trucks haul by with their full loads; trains scream by with their deadlines, but everybody has a job to do and no one is willing to jeopardize that for anything or anybody.
By night the streetwalkers of the Point come out to work; the Homeless come out looking for a dark corner to call home; and the johns come looking for comfort. Each doing their own thing, none looking for trouble.
Maybe because of its anonymity or maybe because of the I-don’t-have-time-to-give-a-shit atmosphere, this place is not threatening to me.
Or maybe because it is the one place where my brother and I can go fishing. The other day we were there while a guy caught an eel. He kept yelling “I caught an eeeeeel!” I saw an innocence in his eyes – as if it was the first time he’s caught anything.
Usually while my mother does her early morning “Farmer’s Market” shopping, we go to the dock. As we are waiting for the fish to bite, we talk about nothing and everything. We watch the waves crash against the pilings and the sound it makes is the most soothing sound I’ve ever heard. The water of the Hudson is filthy and has a terrible stench. We would not dare keep the fish we caught – we knew better – but there is something about fishing on the pier that gives me hope…
Maybe we are just normal kids in spite of our circumstances.
