We found a chair on Craigslist. The ad said it was too heavy to carry, so I hired a man with a van. He was supposed to meet us at the apartment, drive us to the neighborhood where the chair was, load it, then drive us back and help carry it up to the apartment. Chair was free. Man with van was $20. No problem. Chair wasnt available until 3, so we asked the man with the van to meet us at 2:30 and we went out to brunch. When wed first moved to this neighborhood, there were only chicken and beans places and some old-school diners. As far as I was concerned, it could have stayed like that forever. But honkeys kept pouring in over the city walls, leaping over the fortifications, and those people like kale and pheasant sausage and asparagus hash and French press hollandaise sauce, etc. And we liked it too, since we were part of the problem we were having. Thats the law of gentrification, right? Everyone wants the neighborhood to stay exactly as it is when they moved there. They want to be the last ones to be allowed in. The first new coffee shop is the beginning of the end. Its a short leap from a quirky biscuit restaurant to the grinning skull of high-rise condos. The new brunch place was next to the run-down old supermarket where they let cats sleep in the meat department and flies held high carnival over the avocados. (I shopped there without telling her). The new brunch place had a pinball machine and a wooden floor. They served skillets full of $15 brisket and mason jars full of $18 bread pudding. Et-grits and gravy-cetera. It was owned by a woman who just loved country kitsch. Bandannas and boots are just the cutest, arent they? I mean, have you ever? In your life? A water-damaged print of a covered bridge. A rusted horseshoe. A cactus with googly eyes. We had a nice enough time. Food was fine. We couldnt afford it really, but we bought it and told each other we liked it. I got a text that the chair had been picked up by somebody else. Texts cost me money back then. It was annoying to receive them. Especially when they were bad news. So.. no chair, so we messed around in an adjoining neighborhood. Bookstores and clothing stores. Cheese shops and dried salami shops. Dog parks and rings of lonely Hasidim playing catch. Walked back home, and a man was leaning against the door of our apartment building. Oh, sorry, we live here. Is your name Simon? Yes. YOU BETTER PAY ME, PAPI!!!! A dude who looked like my dad was calling me papi and demanding money. Older white dude in light blue jeans and a t-shirt from some kind of musical instrument repair shop. PAY UP, PAPI!!! It was the man with the van. We had forgotten to cancel him. The realization flooded me. I felt like I was floating high above Flatbush. He was making a scene. It was four o clock. He had been there for 90 minutes, leaning against the door while we were fingering the fabric on used quilts and watching Pomeranians chase bits of wood. Sorry. Heres your $20. Really sorry we forgot to cancel you. They gave the chair... SORRYS NOT GOOD ENOUGH, PAPI!!! He was really enjoying the scene. He loved letting the street know that he was going to get his money. That he commanded the authority to be paid. Ok, well. Im sorry anyway, and Ive paid you, and you didnt have to carry the chair, so were good. Right? Itll never be good between us, papi. Dont call me again. I wont. I wont call you again. He drove off. We had blown a lot of money, and we still needed a goddamn chair. Back upstairs, I called my girlfriend papi to make light of it all, but she didnt like it. She had been scared. I guess it was scary. I had felt too stupid about the situation to recognize that.
Posted on: Mon, 26 May 2014 02:33:58 +0000
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