Flushing Avenue

Last weekend I went to the post office to pick up a package. I enjoy going to the post office. It reminds me of the island where home delivery isn’t part of life. A daily trip to the post office to clean out the junk mail in the PO Box and catch up on gossip with everyone you run into is a big part of the island’s social fabric. Without that trip to the post office widows would be isolated, new islanders would remain strangers, and everyone would forget how old their neighbor’s children are. Not to mention who’s cheating, who’s stealing, who’s dying, and the occassional who’s happy.

Going to the post office in Brooklyn to pick up a package is a particularly joyful experience because it beats the give and take grudge match one has to endure when trying to get a package out of UPS’s custody. Twice since moving to 250 I’ve sent nasty emails to the CEO of UPS complaining about their lack of service. Their system consists of sending my package by the house, leaving a post-it note on the door three days in a row to tell me I wasn’t home, and then an address in Queens where I can find my package.

After the first of these I did my research and learned that the Queens detention center is located far from any subway line and open from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. Being that I work 9 to 6 Monday through Friday and rely on public transit I called UPS and asked them to relocate my package to a detention center in Manhattan that is open until 9pm and located up the street from my office. UPS informed me that this would be impossible. Odd coming from a company whose primary function is the transfer of objects from one location to another. Both of us unwilling to bend, I called the sender and asked them to recall the package and give me a credit. I’d buy that raincoat from a brick and mortar store, thank you.

The post office that I adore so much, is open on Saturdays and located in my zip code. And so, last weekend, I walked up Flushing Avenue to get my mail. On the way is a low income housing project. The yard is frequently full of the project’s less than functional residents, sitting on the wrought iron fencing, holding their brown paper wrapped bottles and shouting or laughing or both at one another. It’s possible to cut diagonally through the project’s lawn as a short cut to the post office. Being daylight I thought ‘what the hell?’ and entered the gate, trying not to draw attention to myself. The groundkeeping crew was at work and I figured if any trouble came my way they’d have quick access to the NYPD. Then I thought ‘Unless the crew is made up of criminals fulfilling their public service requirements’ followed by the thought ‘if that’s the case maybe I’ll see some celebrities.’

At the center of the project is a swimming pool. Who knew? Being that it was 100+ degrees that day the pool was logically closed.

I also witnessed an aged Chinese woman performing some sort of ancient (I guess) martial art with a child’s toy sword. She was graceful going through her motions, slowly slicing the air with the sword, delicately lunging and reaching. The courtyard had trees and paths and a small playground. Birds chirped. It was much more pleasant on the inside than on the street.

Coming out the other side, I crossed to the post office and waited in the long line with my neighbors, most cursing in one language or another at the slow pace, angrily eyeing the overly made up woman who was trying to flirt her way to the front of the line, critical of the obese postal worker who refused to search for more than one package at a time, and bonding with each other over the shared burden of having to wait.

I wondered if any of these people would become familiar to me. Would I live in the neighborhood long enough to know their faces, their names, their stories? Probably not, I don’t get that many packages. But, a week later, I’ve forgotten about the heat of that day and the worry of crossing the projects. Instead, I’m left with the memory of the post office.

Clark 1995-2007

Two Years in Grenoble

Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

Sunday morning I woke up with the sun, but lay in bed reading a comic book and playing with the cat I’m watching this summer (Kingdom Come with artwork by Alex Ross; my friend Alan’s grey Persian Akeru while he’s in Vermont performing in The King and I).
Around 9:30 my phone rang, caller ID clearly showing it was my friends in New Jersey, Luswin and Fritz. For whatever reason, Fritz had acquired a faux-English accent and claimed to be Mayor Bloomberg. I played along and we agreed that the city was in a fine state, but the nation could use a late entry independent candidate into the presidential race. And then he asked me what my plans were for the day. “I’ll probably go to Target and buy a cookie jar,” I said. “Well,” he said, “what would you think about slapping on some sun screen, grabbing your Yankees cap, and meeting us downstairs in two hours?”

True to his word, two hours later Fritz, Luswin, and Kathy pulled up. Forgoing the Yankees cap (I don’t own one), we headed to the Bronx and Yankee Stadium. Not being sports fans, Luswin and I passed the day discussing which players filled out their jerseys the best and who near us in the stands could do without the extra Michelob. Being sports fans, Fritz and Kathy spent the day discussing the line up and the infield’s batting average.

Luswin, a transplant from Colombia, single handedly setback immigration reform by talking through the Star Spangled Banner. “Do I have to stand if I’m not American?” “Who’s singing?” “Look at that guy over there.” “Did I show you my new cell phone?” ”I like how the pin stripes cling to their curves.” “We went to the beach last weekend and there was a family of sea lions down a ways and when I said we should get closer to them Fritz said that we should leave them alone and I convinced him that we should get close enough to take some pictures, but they were further away than they looked and so we got ice cream instead.”

As we settled into out seats, Kathy had the misguided notion that she could make me understand the nuances of the game. She explained to me how batting averages are calculated and who was who on both teams. Fritz knew better and brought hot dogs and beer without the expectation that I’d leave the day a greater man. I was happy to be with friends out in the sun.

After the 7th inning stretch, with our sunscreen wearing thin and the Jerseyites facing a long journey through four boroughs and a length of the turnpike, we dusted off the peanut shells and headed back to the car. Where we sat waiting our turn to exit the parking garage. Luswin fell asleep, Fritz theorized on what the new stadium’s parking will be like, Kathy littered the car, and I tried to figure out exactly where we were in the Bronx.

Arriving back at 250, I said good-bye and thank you to my friends, and they drove off, leaving Brooklyn and heading for the bridge and tunnel that would take them home.