The Sudden Curve: Weblogs

It's an old bowling expression; "coming in from the Brooklyn side", and it refers to the path of the ball into the pocket formed by the headpin and the pin next to it. If a bowler rolls the ball with a clockwise spin, or 'English' on it, it will hit the pocket going left to right. The left side of the pocket is "the Brooklyn side". Some say you're less likely to get a strike if you bowl it in from the Brooklyn side.

I spent the past week getting my pocket hit with strikes on the Brooklyn side. It was a gloomy place, Brooklyn, and not just because of the ugly winter weather. Apparently the place has been enveloped in a dark cloud of gloom, oppression and depression since the 2000 election. People there are sullen and even angry, stemming I'm told, from the fact that their freedom and prosperity were abruptly taken away when the evil dictator Bush was installed by those nine dark robed Witches and Warlocks up in the Supreme Temple of Darkness.

They are also very busy. The hustle and bustle never stops. Traffic is heavy all hours of day and night. Stores are jammed to the gills with merchandise, and shoppers are carrying it out in giant armloads. Restaurants are packed shoulder to shoulder too. You'd never know that such abject poverty, starvation and desolation as the world has never seen lay just a few turns of the clock hands away. Apparently power shopping is a natural Brooklyn response to economic devastation.

I captured a whiff and glimpse of this dismal Brooklyn zeitgeist during a Saturday lunch at Junior's Most Fabulous Diner on the corner of Flatbush and Dekalb avenues in the (broken) heart of Brooklyn. A smiling picture of William the Great of Arkansas, shaking the hands and slapping the backs of the wait staff, greets you when you enter Junior’s foyer. You might expect such a prominent reminder of happier times to do wonders for the psyches of these demoralized folk, but I could not discern any positive effect at all. In fact I think I might have been the only one to notice it, which fact did little for my own appetite. Once past the grinning two-dimensional Arkansargoyle, we entered the diner, passing cases full of gloriously fattening cheesecakes and pies, for which Junior’s has earned world renown, and were seated amid the crowd at a row of tables with a booth bench on one side and chairs on the other.

Around us couples and families hunched determinedly, if somewhat dejectedly, over thick scrumptious looking steakburgers, gorgeous racks of ribs glistening with sauce, piles of golden fried chicken laying in state beside heaps of large thick fries, and other delicious looking diner-type fare. Bowls of coleslaw, beets, pickles and other niceties are served with every order. Indeed I will bet that the food value of one day’s seatings would match the monthly caloric intake of many third world countries. Such bounty however did nothing to lift the sprits of the sad Brookylonians.

I went for the “A” style half-pound steakburger. It is served topped with melted Muenster cheese and mushrooms on a grilled Kaiser roll. It was delivered with a perfunctory “‘scuse me”and drop of the plate by my nattily corn-rowed waiter, and I must say it was one of the BEST burger sammiches I’ve sunk my teeth into in quite some time. My colleague, “Dr. Ed”, had chili and reported that it was rather bland. It was apparently quite filling too, as he was unable to finish his giant sammich.

Ed went to the washroom, and I was left to listen in on the conversations of those around me. That’s how I gleaned the full extent of the depression that has descended upon southeast Gotham. Grim predictions of disease, death, famine and blight were coming from all sides. I tried to cheer up a young lady next to me by offering that “Kerry looks like he’s pulling ahead”. “All I care is somebody beat Bush” she replied, shaking her head. “This can’t be let go on”, she added as she turned away from me and back to her sumptuous repast, slightly offended by my intrusion. There’d be no joy in Mudville this day, despite my best efforts. The demeanor of the Saturday lunch crowd at Junior’s made it abundantly clear why Brooklyn was chosen as host city for the “International Conference on Pain” which I was attending as my official bidniss there.

Had I not partaken liberally of the very drinkable New York water, I might have missed a most interesting aspect of Junior’s. The décor is, I’m guessing, late seventies, with disco mirrors on the walls, and the tables and chairs are blonde Danish modern wood set off by orange naugahide seating surfaces. It’s not at all like the fifties diners, with the chrome and vinyl. I made my way to the men’s room, which was up a flight of stairs, and whom should I find to greet me at the washroom door but a youthful, tuxedo-clad washroom attendant! He stood ready by the faucet, and as I turned to wash my hands, he took it upon himself to start and stop the water, and to dispense soap for me, then handed me a towel. I had no change, so it cost me a buck. Strike one to the pocket on the Brooklyn side! As I flipped the bill into the basket, I noticed a stack of bidniss cards beside it. Junior’s it seems, has outsourced their washroom attending work! More evidence of the damage being wrought upon our fragile economy by the evil Bush administration, the bidniss cards indicated that “Royal Flush ” washroom service had become the contractor for this important service, and they’re apparently available for hire elsewhere as well. If you’re in the market, I think I kept a card.

From lunch back to the busy streets, where we saw, of all things, vans; parked on the street with medical clinics in them, ready and willing to treat anybody who came aboard, apparently at no charge. Who forgot to tell the go-zillions of Americans with no healthcare about these vans in Brooklyn? Shoppers by the dozens parked their packages and went into the vans for a quick shot of free healthcare and to rest their tired feet.

We walked on in the direction of Manhattan, and soon came upon a real estate salesman. Seems he had held the listing for this stately antique bridge for some time, and was anxious to get a bid on it. It’s called the Brooklyn Bridge, and it’s an 1883 model suspension bridge. Perhaps the best indicator of the abysmal Brooklyn economy was the speed with which he accepted my paltry offer of two dollars and a note for the balance. I am to return for the closing in a month. Strike two in the pocket from the Brooklyn side.

(picture of me with my new purchase )

We walked across the bridge into Manhattan, and spent a few somber moments looking at the site that used to be the World Trade Center. I still have trouble contemplating the immensity of that tragedy. I am indeed impressed with the resiliency of New Yorkers and that of our economy when I see what has been done since the attack. It somehow lifted my spirits even as I looked at tears on the cheeks of those who had clearly lost loved ones and were visiting a family gravesite.

Still, I could not walk back across my bridge until I had found an Irish pub and topped off the antifreeze. Deep in thought, and fortified against a chill wind, I started back across my new antique bridge. For some reason, I looked to my right as I neared the middle, and there she stood, her graceful arm uplifted with its torch aflame! Whatta Babe! How had I missed her before? My heart beat a little faster and I felt a bit warmer. Beats the hell out of me why these Brooklyn folks insist on being so glum in the midst of the cradle of liberty, all because my taxes were cut. If they get their way, those taxes shall rise again. Strike three to the pocket from the Brooklyn side.

One last aside: If you’re looking to arrow a Pope and Young class rat, I strongly suggest that you book your next hunt in Brooklyn. There are some HAWGS afoot in that town, I tell you, and they’re not at all shy. The one time I most missed the comfort of my pistol was when one ran around a corner just in front of us. Nearly ankle tall, and with a sinister black coat, the burly bruiser barely managed to shimmy under a two inch gap at the bottom of a closed garage door. God help the cats in Brooklyn. I imagine they’re sad too.

posted by IFY, editor at launch