My Brooklyn

Howard Adamsky

I dream of going back. I actually lived at 1010 President Street and before that was on Park Place. Went to P.S. 241 and graduated in 1963. So many people, so many have moved to another location but they have never really left. I am among one or two other things, a writer. I am including a part of my book that is my dream of returning home.

. . .

I still dream about the old neighborhood. Not as much as I used to but time and again it continues to happen. I used to be afraid that this dream would never stop. Now I am afraid that it might. My dreams are clear and vivid. Most often, I am driving down the street and I stop in the middle of the road. I park. Very slowly and very carefully I exit the car. I am afraid. I walk toward my building, very slowly at first, than with more speed. I am fearful and excited to be experiencing this. I feel alive and agitated in a way that is not possible to explain. There are no computer stores. No e-mail. No websites. No couch with seven remotes that I can't understand how to use. I am still walking very slowly. It is like I have been asleep for a long time and I need to come out of that uncomfortable stupor. It is a warm day. The sun is shining. People are coming up to greet me. Some of them I know and some I do not. They are shaking my hand and welcoming me back. They are telling me that everything is all right again as they point to the houses and show off how nice they look and how well they have been kept up. It is almost as if they have done all of this work for me. Because they knew that I was coming for a visit. And if they can get me to stay, they will somehow win. I will win too. I will be able to say

"Look, look how nice everything is. Look how things could have been. We could have stayed right here. We did not have to run away."

They are right. Everything seems so pretty. Immersed in a beauty that can only bee seen by one who wants to see it. It is as though they are trying to show me that nothing has really changed. They worked so very hard just to keep things the same for me. They are showing me that sometimes living in the past is better than living in the present. It is not only for the sad and the malcontent. It is not only for the unhappy and the downtrodden. That there is nothing to feel ashamed about. That my place is still here if I that is what I want because everyone has a right to live where they want to live. To live where they are most happy. To have, if nothing else, no more than they once had but certainly no less. To walk the familiar streets of home.

Somewhere, in the small crowd, a voice rises up and asks me if I am glad to be home. The talking stops. People seem to be waiting for my reply. Some look away as other rub their hands together and cock their heads forward. As though my say-so will somehow make something right again as we correct a wrong that should not have happened. It is almost like the chance to change the universe. To undo something that can't be undone. To beat the system. It is as though these people have worked for years, just for this moment. Just for my answer. I stop my slow walking and think for a moment. It has been so very long. Two marriages long. Three children long. Two gone and one going. Please don't leave me Nick. Please don't leave me alone. Jake, please remember me. Dad loves you Jake. Please come back to me Jake. Many moves long. Many jobs long. An eon has gone by since I have stood in this spot and had the feeling of being home. My eyes burn. I am overwhelmed with what seems to be happening to me. I am home. After so very long, I have finally come home. The endless ache of not belonging is absent and its absence is so very sweet. I am as ordinary and plain as I have ever been and I fit so well into the exact spot that had been taken from me so long ago by those with the very best of intentions. After so many years, I feel connected to the place that has made me what I am. Yes, I am so very glad to be home. I sit on the stoop. It is warm and very hard. I look out at the road as I did as a child and watch the cars go by. I hear Mary Varsi and look to my left. She is trying to find Carmella. I hear Mrs. Rooney call and I look to the right. Michael Lochren is playing in the next yard. Mrs. Rice is at it again, throwing boiling water at the kids for making noise. No matter, she has very bad aim and it cools as it falls from the fourth floor. Joe and M___ have not yet had their three babies die when M___, in a moment of postpartum depression, drowned all of her boys in the bathtub, dressed them in their best clothes and put them to bed while waiting for J___ to come home from work. We were vacationing in Woodburne, NY, vacationing for the summer. My mother read it in the paper. I can still see her crying.

Mrs. Milligan is coming down the stairs, and Mrs. Rice is yelling from her window on the third floor. Mr. Murphy needs me to run to the store and buy him his cigars. For this deed I can collect my nickel and by some candy at Nat's. I turn to my right and the clarity begins to fade. The sun is no longer warm. My right shoulder gives me a bit of pain as it always does in the morning. Rotator cuff surgery has its price and the bill never seems to be paid in full. This is the signal. I turn to look at the people's faces but it is no longer as easy to do as it was before. They are not smiling any longer. They look at me with sadness. They have failed and our respective loss of hope fades quickly. It is time for me to go now. We realize what we all know to be true. That what is factual and reality-based will always win out over what is prayed for and imagined. Their faces tell me that what has been done cannot be undone and there is no way to fix that sad and simple fact. They are as disappointed as I am for they live in a place that I can't ever return to and they can't ever escape from.

The scene begins to fade and the fragile images are replaced by something that moves very slowly. I am feeling very warm under both of these heavy covers. It all begins to disappear very quickly. I am dreaming and I begin to feel the deep sorrow that accompanies the end of this dream. I fall back into the bottom of an early morning sleep that is sweet and quite dreamless. It is without any sensation and beyond any capacity to feel that I exist for that period of time. I awake in an hour or so. I am well rested and strangely content. I have my coffee, kiss my son, fight off my dog, hug my wife and get ready to enter into the life with which I am very pleased and privileged to live.

"Good morning my love," she says. "How did you sleep?" "Fine," I say. "How did you sleep?" "Great," she replies. "Are you gong to see a client today or working at home?" "Actually, I'm going to New York for the day to see someone for Bob." "Good," she says. "I'll review the stuff that has come in over the weekend and get you set up for the week. Is that OK?" "Great," I say. "I'll call you from the road."

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