Sunny Cold And Loud

Last night I went to bed at a decent hour. My eyes closed reading AMERICAN TABLOID by James Ellroy. He really hated the Kennedys and I dreamed about my meeting RFK at the Lower Mills trolley stop in 1966. JFK's younger brother shook my hand with the a reincarnated firmness. I attempted to warn him about the gunman in the LA hotel, but a pounding noise disrupted my Sunday morning slumber. The thumping came from the construction of a condo a good ten blocks from the Fort Greene Observatory. I checked my telephone for the time. 7:01. The contractors had their workers at it early probably to catch up on a yesterday lost to snow and rain. I looked out the window. This morning's sky was blue with wispy clouds. I hadn't turned on the heat. My bedroom was cool, although I couldn't see my breath. The work crews on the condo wouldn't be so lucky and I hoped that they were getting double overtime and buried myself in my pillows, hoping to regain contact with RFK. He was still back there in my dreams.

7:03 AM

Last month I started waking at 7:03am. I am not a light sleeper, but something was disturbing my slumber cycle. I opened the window of the Fort Greene Observatory to the morning air and heard a machine rumble. I immediately identified the source as the transformer powering the construction of a condo tower several blocks to the north. No one else in the house heard the noise, since they live on the lower floors, plus I'm very sympathetic to noise complaints, whereas some people are insensate to any foreign stimuli. The building looks about six months from completion, so welcome to early mornings. At least I don't live across the street.

No Helicopters Over Brooklyn

Manhattan was a noisy borough. Sirens filled the canyons. Trucks and cars blow their horns, Helicopters fly overhead. There were even more noises from the alley behind my East 10th Street apartment. My windows were usually open. I didn't believe in AC. My alarm clock for several years was a young Jamaican girl, who woke me every weekday morning at 7:30 after her mother left the daycare's play yard in the alley, saying, "Please be a good girl." The well-dressed four year-old answered with a smile, "Yes, mother." As soon as her mother was out of sight, the neat little girl lifted her head to heaven and let loose a series of screams better suited to an exorcist movie. None of the daycare workers told her to be quiet. They believed in letting children express themselves. My neighbors and I were not so understanding. We preferred our sleep to her freedom.

One morning I shouted from my window for her to be quiet. More polite than angry.

"Fuck you, mistah." It was almost funny to hear the little girl speak with such conviction. "You ain't my father." "No, I'm not." It was too early in the day for almost funny and almost funny became very unfunny as the young girl repeats her high-pitched arias day after day after day. A ruthless fury seethed in my heart and I thought about physical revenge, except my mother had beaten her six children with a wooden spoon. Not often, but enough for me to remember and I never wanted to hit a child. Not mine. Not others. Kids deserved a wide berth, but this little girl had no cause to curse me out and I thought about revenge. After all I was tough in a neighborhood where tough meant something. This was 1986. I was 34. Still young enough to need my sleep after hard nights working at clubs and this cute little girl was stealing precious hours from my slumber. Finally I went down to the day care center and I complained to the principal. The older woman said that she would speak to the the girl.

Nothing happened at all.

The next morning the little girl gave me the finger.

It was 7:31.

I felt defeated. My good intentions were shot. My Hibernian sense of justice called for action. Firebombing the school was a little too extreme. My strategy required finesse and the next day at 5:30pm the little girl exited from the school to find me speaking with her mother. I was asking her for a date. The little girl stared at me in horror and understanding. Her mother was an attractive intelligent woman. She deserved someone more traditional than a nightclub person.

The following morning I slept in peace.

The girl respected my wishes and I hers.

In 2004 I moved from that apartment after the faceless landlords offered me a buy-out. I left the East Village for Brooklyn. Helicopters don't fly over Fort Greene. The only flight pattern is a southern approach for jets to La Guardia. I can't see Manhattan from my bedroom windows. Only the clock tower at the Atlantic Terminal. My windows are open today. I still have no AC, but a bird is singing in a nearby tree. Its song wakes me in the morning. Some things never change in New York.