A thousand rings, a single clown
by David Benjamin
“It’s
just that there are all these Sandras running around who you've never
met before, and it’s confusing at first, fantastic. But damn it, isn’t
it great to find out how many Sandras there are? It’s like those little
cars in the circus, you know? This tiny red car comes out, hardly big
enough for a midget, and it putters around, and suddenly its doors open
and out come a thousand clowns, whooping and hollering and raising
hell.”
— Murray Burns, in A Thousand Clowns, Herb Gardner
BROOKLYN — Didn’t he grow up here? How did he miss this?
I
lived here for just a few years, on a block where, coming out the door
in the morning, I often weaved my way through throngs of Hasidic tots on
route to Hebrew School. My nearest neighbors were a black music
producer who smoked too much weed and a French concert cellist with two
kids who didn’t smoke anything at all.
Not to mention the Doberman pinscher in the hallway (shades of Edward Albee!).
Brooklyn — and Queens, too, where he began his career, as a junior slumlord
— is a thousand-ring circus impossible to take in. The best you can do
is sit in the bleachers, high enough to see it all unfold, smiling in
idiot wonder and noshing on your Cracker Jack.
Our street, when
we lived here, was a living tribute to Emma Lazarus, a human hodgepodge
where, halfway up the block, a huge lady set up a chair on the sidewalk,
partly to avoid the summer heat indoors, partly because she just loved
to say hello to everyone who came along. When she was at her post, we
crossed the street to feel her motherhood and receive her blessing.
His
roots are in these streets. Well, they should be. How can he turn from
this warmth and welcome in favor of the dour Dutch Reformers of Iowa and
the cordial cross-burners of dying Dixie?
On this visit, my
business takes me down Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn — not to be confused
with the one in Manhattan. Monday night, I dined on 5th with friends at a
French-Vietnamese bistro. For lunch next day, still on 5th, I ate
Hungarian, across from a Salvadoran restaurant. Along 5th, I could have
just as well had Mexican, Italian, Cajun, Peruvian, Colombian, Irish,
Swedish, Greek, Afghan, Japanese, Szechuan, Hunan, Cantonese, Japanese,
Thai, soul or barbecue. I noticed a food truck offering hot dogs and
cheesesteaks alongside falafel and gyros. There are bagel factories,
oyster bars, chicken windows, pizza slices, sandwich takeout and burger
joints, but no sign of KFC or McDonald’s.
I think, ah, in all
those flyover states, denizens are shopping online or stuck with
Walmart. But in Brooklyn, people prowl 4th, 5th and Bedford Ave. for
every need, even God — who occupies a thousand storefronts in a hundred
denominations. Main Street is moribund in Michigan, Missouri, Wisconsin,
Indiana. But here, in a dozen blocks, a dozen hardwares — not one an
Ace or a Depot. I pass at least five groceries and twice as many
bodegas, two joints to get tattooed, more than that to get my hair dyed,
three barbers (with barber poles!), nail shops in six languages,
jewelers galore, a real Chinese laundry, two smoke shops — “cigars,
cigarettes, cigarillos” — delis everywhere, including the “Kindest Deli”
(next to a shop called “Please”), two bakeries, lots of clothes to buy
(new, used and ethnic), a plethora of storefront medical and dental
clinics (some looking more reputable than others), two schools plus the
streetfront academies that teach Japanese karate, Korean tae kwon do,
Brazilian jiu jitsu and (apparently) multinational kickboxing. There are
lots of drugstores, an honest-to-God dimestore and shoe shops up the
yingyang. Not to mention the Fifth Avenue Cat Clinic and a wine store
brilliantly titled Red White & Bubbly.
Fifth is a briarpatch
of apostrophes: Daisey’s Diner, Smith’s Tavern, Bonnie’s Grill, Luke’s
Lobster, Freddy’s Bar, Peppino’s Pizzeria, Russo’s Deli, Annie’s Blue
Ribbon General Store and (thank you, Frank Capra), Zuzu’s Petals!
How did this world not touch his heart and capture his imagination?
Tuesday
morning, I slogged through the rain to an old haunt, the Connecticut
Muffin shop on Myrtle Ave. I was looking for my old coffee companion,
Nadav, an Israeli transplant who charms women half his age and takes
them to Broadway for dinner and a show. Nadav was absent, but the boss
(and his assistant) remembered me. Two ladies interrupted an intense
gossipfest to share with me their affection for Nadav. Victor, a local
poet and black activist, tapped me on the arm and said, “Hey, you’re the
writer, right?”
How did he — who never had his daily coffee
in a corner muffin joint — come to declare that these mixed, mongrel
and memorable folks don’t belong in the same nation as their fellow
survivors in Youngstown and Janesville? How did he convince millions
that Nadav and Victor — and those two grandmothers talking by the window
— are creatures to be feared, in a wasteland of crime?
There isn’t a street in mid-America more Main than Myrtle Avenue.
On
my way back from coffee, passing by the Brooklyn Academy of Music,
suddenly a cluster of schoolkids, coming toward me in a familiar —
jostling, jabbering overwhelming — New York formation. As they swarm
past, some excusing themselves, some oblivious, I notice one girl in
particular.
How can I help but notice?
She’s neither
white nor black nor exactly brown. She is New York City. She’s 14 going
on 30 and she’s beautiful. In a lusty voice in perfect tune, a shake in
her hips and a shimmy in her shoulders, she’s rapping a favorite song.
She’s performing — I realize — straight at me, a twinkle in her eye and
an impish grin.
She passes in a flash, and I wonder — as I turn
to watch her go — whether she saw me smile back, and whether she sensed,
in my surprise, my approval for her brassy-bold style and my hope that
her whole life turns out as joyful as one morning in November when she
strutted past BAM and Beyoncé-ed an old white guy.
As she goes, I
can’t help but think this girl is the center ring in the Brooklyn —
Queens, New York, American! — circus. This teeming tent is all mixed up,
it’s too much to take in, and it is — absolutely — great. If something
needs to be re-made, it’s not here.
It’s not her.
Friday, November 18, 2016
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