City Rhythms

Brooklyn has a special pulse to it, which is something I can't really describe and I think can only be felt after you live here for a little while. It is a sense of constant movement that can be both exhilarating and exhausting. Here are some sensory examples from a sunny--yet ordinary--Wednesday morning.

I sat in a coffeehouse up the street from the apartment. I was there to wait out while my laundry dried, and to catch up on my correspondence (how very Jane Austen of me!) It used to be an old glass factory, and the decor is minimalist, but light and airy. The door and windows (the whole front of the building is glass) were all opened and I could hear two delivery drivers chatting in Spanish on the sidewalk. Bikes are tied to the railing in a jumble, and a bulldog sits outside while his owner gets an espresso to go. I was perched on a green stool, scanning the NY Times, reading about volcanic ash plumes, Long Island racist crimes, and health insurance. If I was a poet (which I'm not) I would write about the feel of the newsprint under my hands, the clink of the small silver spoon next to my glass cup of mocha, and the dusting of cinnamon that speckles the foam on top. I would write of the crunch of the croissant I am eating as I try to pick crumbs off my plate, and the clicking of the hipster next to me as he types on his Mac. The baristo (is that the male form of barista? beats me) hurried outside to yell a greeting to the woman on the red bike. He is wearing a denim shirt, jeans, a red neckerchief and his arms are covered with black and red tattoos. He has a mohawk and an Australian accent and has swirled a spiral into my drink before handing it to me. I may have a crush on him. The Beatles played in a ceaseless blend of calm and noise (Strawberry Fields Forever) and prisms of light bounced off the old, leaded windows and the scarred table where I was sitting.

The sidewalks are a pockmarked mass of gum stains, tobacco stains, and spilled juice, water, and beer. Last night as I was taking the subway I noticed the same phenomena at the 86th St station--the pavement takes on an almost polka-dotted appearance with all of these marks. The security guard at the hospital center says, "good morning, miss" as I walk by. Another older man, wearing a suit, hat, and pink shirt, taps his cane on the sidewalk. "How's it goin', baby?" he asks. "Good morning, sir," I say to them both.

I am the only person in the laundromat, other than the older, stooped woman and the younger, thin woman who work there. We exchange smiles, as they snap snap snap other people's clothes that they are expertly folding. I have seen these women every 2 weeks, and I will leave here and never know their names. The completed laundry in their colorful bags look like misshapen larvae in a large pile on top of the washers. I haul my maroon bag over my shoulder and walk home, my keys clinking in my pocket, which matches the clicking cadence of the woman who passes me, hunting for change in her purse, hurrying to catch the 48 bus. I slide open the windows of the apartment and sit down to write this, to put off folding my laundry.