A Tree Falls in Brooklyn

Several severe micro-bursts of tornado strength winds ripped across the borough of Brooklyn knocking down thousands of trees. Big and small. Only one was toppled in Manhattan. High winds. Not a storm. The rain was finished by the time that I left work. Richie Boy and I subwayed to 23rd Street. He had to pick up a check for a Cartier watch. My destination was an art gallery on 25th Street displaying the work of James Britton, an American landscape painter of the mid-20th Century. Very well-unknown. My friend Kenyon was at the gallery.

"In books his paintings have more appeal."

"They look as if he painted them fast."

"Not a lot of brush strokes."

I later found out from the gallery owner that James Britton was constantly short of funds. Prolific output. Not enough paint or canvas. I liked two of the paintings. One of Sag Harbor. Another of a country road. Both were affordable, but out of my range.

Richie Boy had to dine with his wife. He was a good husband this week. In fact he loved his wife dearly, so he was a good husband 99.99% of the time. It was the .01% that got him in trouble, however his wife loved Richie Boy too. Just not that .01%.

Kenyon and I spoke about the paintings, New York, the 3rd tower of light commemorating the 3rd fallen building of 9/11. Our conversation was hushed. People are still not ready to discuss that event, mostly since they have heard too many lies to listen to the truth. I bid good night to Kenyon and trained over to Brooklyn. Almost missed my stop. The last glass of art wine was to blame.

South Oxford was quiet and I entered my building from the basement door. My landlord has yet to give me a key for the real front door. AP likes to think of me as a servant. I live on the top floor and babysit his kids.

"Did you see the tree outside?" His wife asked from the kitchen. "It was blown down by the storm."

"No." Art wine had broken at least one of my senses. I could now hear a buzzsaw. It sounded close.

"The storm was something else."

"My boss had called us to take shelter." Manny had seen the black clouds from his high rise. I had made fun of his urgency. As always Manny is right. "It was that bad?"

"Go take a look."

I walked outside. A large ginkgo tree was on its side. A work crew was cutting through the limbs. None of the parked cars had been damaged by the fall.

Lucky.

Someone had been killed in Park Slope.

The next morning a crowd was on the street. A bee keeper was gathering bees from the broken nest inside the ginkgo. Thousands of them had been scattered by the trunk's shattering. Neighbors were taking photos with their I-phones.

I wandered toward the Lafayette subway station.

Late for work.

A tree had fallen in Brooklyn and I didn't heard a thing.

Not even one hand clapping.