The Pulaski

Jon Spiegler

9/27/11

                We’re looking at the graffiti written on the guard rails between us and the “creek,” a sludgy mix of sewage, toxic runoff, and fresh water. It’s mostly written in sharpie, though one guy seemed to have used his key. TITO ‘N NENA 4EVA.

One schmuck, using a fine tipped sharpie wrote out some terrible poetic verse, something about the sunset and “her” eyes. I turn around and look out at either direction, the cyclists coming from one direction, the Polish grandmother from the other. She’s wearing a scowl on her face. She hates the kids who took over her neighborhood and I don’t blame her. More than anything she hates dodging bikes.

 I turn back and look out forward, squinting my eyes because the sun is getting ready to set and therefore bright as all hell. A cool breeze hits my face and blows the ash off my cigarette. This is one of the few places I can relax, suspended over the “water” and essentially floating in the air. I’m looking at the hospital I was born in from our bench, this amalgamation of wooden blocks that make for a clever seating arrangement. This is the Brooklyn/Queens version of a Lover’s Lane, I guess. You never really see anyone but couples on this bench, and besides that hipster poet, no one but couples are really marking up the railings. There’s BRAD AND ASHLEY for LIFE! There’s ANNIE AND JACKIE 2010… The surface under our feet begins to shake, there’s a tug boat coming from behind us, the horn cuts through you like a knife, we were so accustomed to the quiet white noise of cars and bikes zooming past us while we just sat, had a smoke, and took in the view. I take out my sharpie and think of what to write.