The End of a Brooklyn Summer – Part 3

There’s something about soda from a diner that hits differently. Maybe it’s the carbonation, the perfect combination of water-to-ice-to-syrup ratio, or the “old fashioned” soda glass it typically comes in. It was especially refreshing on an unbearably hot day like that summer day in Brooklyn.

Condensation from the tinted blue glass slowly dripped onto the table, forming a raised ring around the glass base. The glass was too wet for me to touch without it slipping from my hand and spilling all over the table top. It was about half empty when Judy came back to check on me.

“You hungry? Gary’s got a few burgers going. I can bring one out,” she said.

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

I was in no rush to get home, but I didn’t have time for a meal. I barely finished my drink. With a sip left and a napkin wrapped around the glass, I sped shuffled my feet to the counter while finishing whatever remnants of soda and melted ice I could. I left the near-empty glass on the counter for Judy, headed back to grab my bike and off I went rolling it out the front door.

“See ya later, Judy!”

Once I got to Glenview Avenue, I made a hard left pushing down on the flat part of my left foot as hard as I could, nearly skidding my back tire against the cracked sidewalk. I peddled hard, harder than I’ve ever imagined I could peddle. My feet were pumping so fast my bike chain almost shook loose. My momentum jolted to a stop when I got to the corner of E 99th Street. It was as if a ton of bricks pushed heavy on top of both shoulders when I realized what I was about to do – go home without knowing the situation that would unfold as soon as I opened the metal spoked storm door and set foot into the carpeted hallway. In that moment, my breath was heavy, sweat dripped down my neck and back and my wet hands lost grip on the handle bars.

The view of our house’s roof was spotty from where I came to a screeching halt. If you looked hard enough through the oak trees – yes, trees can grown in Brooklyn – and parked cars, you could see the front windows of them upper-level where my late great grandparents once lived.

Built in 1930s, the ground floor of the duplex sat at least four feet below street level. On the outside, the upper level had faded white cedar siding with a triple-wide picture window framed out by faded yellow shutters on either side. Under the covered porch, the almost pistachio-like green siding wrapped around the entire lower part of house showing there were two distinct living spaces that made up the entirety of the post-WWII constructed dwelling.

It was in my family since built. At least that’s what I was told. My great grandparents bought it off of my great-grandfather’s cousin after they got married. They lived in the upstairs apartment, while my grandfather’s cousin lived downstairs. In the late 1970s, my grandparents along with my mom and her younger sister, my aunt, moved there from Cropsey Avenue. And, of course, I first called it “home” after my parents divorced when I was young.

By the time I got to the front gate, my grandfather was walking down the street. Despite his tall frame, he was a slow walker. He took big strides, but it wasn’t the New York pace people are familiar with. As I waited next to our neighbor’s driveway, I caught a glimpse of a fully-packed duffel bag that was plopped in the middle of the front porch. Next to it, a single cardboard box left open at the top. Everything I owned was in that duffel bag and box. It wasn’t much.

I didn’t go inside. I couldn’t. The shouting was unbearable. It was like that time my grandmother took me on what she considered a “Saturday afternoon adventure.” I guess that’s what most alcoholics call a run to the liquor store. It was 11 a.m. on a Saturday. I was 6 years old at the time and my mom was working that weekend so I was left with my grandparents. My grandfather was over at the garage with a customer’s car so it was just my grandmother watching me. The time of day, a revoked license or the fact that I was 6 years old was irrelevant. I sat shotgun while we drove around to find any liquor store that would sell her anything.

Several weeks prior, my mom took me on an mission to do the opposite – visit every liquor store within 2 miles of our house and ask that they refuse to sell anything to my grandmother. My mom brought photocopies of my grandmother’s now revoked driver’s license and provided one to every store manger she spoke with that day.

We visited about 10 liquor stores that day. My grandmother managed to find the one we missed. After my mom got wind of our little adventure, the yelling match taking place in the living room concerned the neighbors. It was loud enough for them to call the police. I waited in the driveway until the cops left.

“Bring those to the car, kid. You’re going to need them,” my grandfather said from about 10 feet from where I was standing.

I did as I was told and brought both the bag and box to my dad’s car, which was oddly left unlocked – that’s not a normal practice when you live in a city. I put both inside the trunk and walked back to the front porch.

By the time I got back, my parents were walking up the steps.

It was a quick and awkward goodbye to my mom and grandpa. It was almost as if I would see them again in a few days. I didn’t. My grandma was still inside, presumable upset. From the top of the front steps, you could hear my grandfather as he closed the door behind him shout “Would you knock it off! She’s already gone.”

“Alright, let’s go,” my dad said as he waived his arm in the direction of the car.

No questions were asked, nor do I recall being told why I was leaving. I learned not to ask and just do. So I did and a year later I went back to Brooklyn, but never called the house in Canarsie home again.

While that exact moment wasn’t the last of my summers in Brooklyn, it was the last time I felt a connection to somewhere. At least until college. I spent that year after leaving Canarsie with my dad and step-mom in New Jersey. That was about the time it took for my mom to find an apartment in Sheepshead Bay. We stayed there for less than a year before moving to Marine Park, spent a few years there and moved to Clifton, NJ.

I lost touch with the neighborhood just as much as I lost touch with my grandfather. Once I moved to the Garden State that sealed the final envelope of my hopes for ever spending another summer in the borough.

Twenty years passed and time got the best of what was left of the neighborhood. My grandfather’s garage was torn down to build more than a dozen townhouses, Mario’s Shop closed up shortly after my grandfather died, and the stores and restaurants on Flatlands Avenue changed owners and names several times over the years. The diner was handed over to a Crispy Cream franchise only a few summers after I left. The little hole in the wall still served daily breakfast but there was a glass case at the front filled with Crispy Cream’s finest. I heard Judy still worked there until the eatery shuttered for good to make way for a cellular store. That was about five years ago. She died shortly after that.

In the exact spot where I stood, with sweat dripping down my back, face and onto my bike, the view was exactly the same. The house was untouched by time and everything around it felt unfamiliar. My beloved memories of my summer were still there, however, but those were also slowly fading over time time.

The blue well water sign still hung by black zip ties on the three foot tall chain link fence out front, the 8-by-3 foot patch of dirt below it was still bare and the covered porch was just how I left it – empty.

I would imagine whomever lives there now, ripped out the low pile grayish-brown carpet that went down the entry hall and up the steps, the maroon carpet in my grandparent’s front room, the tan peel-and-stick linoleum tile on the kitchen floor and painted over that bright yellow paint that brought out the worst in the kitchen floor. The black and white tiles in the bathroom, the salmon pink tub/shower with the matching toilet is probably long gone. You couldn’t pay me enough to find out.

The pigeon coup, although clearly empty, stood erected, yet forgotten, on the far end of the driveway. The house siding was still the same – white on top, pistachio green on the bottom. The small round dents left by my handball were embedded in the lower parts of the siding and you could still make out the old oil stains on the driveway cement from my grandfather’s Harley.

I could hear the faint yells coming from inside like it was yesterday. It was something that occurred often in the house so it was something I became accustomed to. I spent a lot of time in that driveway, chucking the handball at the wall until it nearly popped.

Why leaving so suddenly became crucial to my sanity’s survival didn’t become apparent until my late 20s. It took years of blaming myself, my parents and my grandparents until there was no one left to blame.

I’m in my 30s, had a successful career in journalism, and live with the wonderful family I created with my college sweetheart. I managed to root myself far from a place that I will forever miss despite how that house, and what was in it, made my once feel.