Moishel’s real name is Larry. However, as a born-again Jew, he decided to change his name to something more in line with his newfound Jewish faith. After little thought and no lack of absurdity, he settled on Moishel, the name of the Hasid plumber his father employed back in the day.

‘Today’s Saturday, dummy,’ scolds Bob in a hostile, yet childlike manner.

Bob’s real name is Ronald, as in Ronald Regan, as in his father, the mostly comatose, barely breathing man lying between the two quarreling men was and still is a zealous Republican. Ronald, a born-again Rastafarian (although he was never a Rastafarian to begin with), named himself after Bob Marley, his most beloved reggae singer of all time.

‘It can’t be Saturday. I’m thinking it’s Tuesday. Doesn’t it smell like a Tuesday?’ Moishel sucks air in through his wide flaring nostrils. ‘I smell cheese.’ A few more sniffs. ‘Yeah definitely cheese. American to be exact.’

‘Smells like Tuesday? Man, you don’t know the first thing about what Tuesday smells like. Cheese? American cheese? You just saying that cause dad is right here and you trying to be all patriotic. But regardless of that, today is Saturday. Saturday smells like apple juice. Smell that, Moish. Take it in. Like an orchard up in here. Fact, man. That’s a fact. Apple juice.’

‘Cheese!’ Moishel screams, pressing his heavily stomached body over the withered old man at the center of the bed.

‘Apple juice!’ Bob screams back, also pressing his heavily stomached body over the withered old man at the center of the bed.

‘Cheese!’

‘Apple juice!’

‘Cheese!’

‘Apple juice!’

‘Shut the hell up, you morons!’ The old man, their father, a wizened little thing, no hair, big schnoz, mottled face and Ray Ban sunglasses because his eyes are too sensitive to the light and besides you’re never too old to wear Ray Bans, shoots up his arms and smacks each of his blubbering sons against the cheek, a surprisingly adept maneuver considering his near paralyzed state.

‘It’s Sunday, you fuckin’ morons. Sunday. I know that and I only leave this bed to shit and piss if I can even make it to the bathroom on time. Goddamn, how the hell are you idiots the product of my seed. Yes, that’s it. It has to be. I blame it on your mothers. They both must’ve been genetic mutants. Jesus H. Christ, I’m sorry I just fornicated with these women for their beauty and nothing else. Lord Jesus, please take my life already, take me from my idiot sons.’

‘See I told you it was Sunday. Idiot,’ Bob boasts, sticking his tongue out to punctuate his latent rightness.

‘Wrong! I told you it was Sunday. The whole time. You never listen to me,’ Moishel blurts out, leaning his body farther over the bed. Absent-mindedly, he applies his meaty hand against the feeble old man’s body.

‘Get the fuck off of me you stupid piece of shit my goddamn hip you’re crushing it. YOU’RE CRUSHING IT!’

‘Oh man, pops, my bad. I didn’t mean to do that. I swear, I didn’t mean it.’

‘My shitty goddamn hip. Jesus. You idiot. Damn. I should never have gotten that hip replacement. Should’ve never listened to that bastard doctor. Nothing was wrong with my real hips. Nothing goddamn whatsoever.’

‘See dad, told you there was something wrong with Moishel. Something definitely wrong with him. You know what, it’s probably those fake Hasid curls he clipped to his hair. They getting in the way of his brain waves.’ Bob chortles, clutching his stomach and aggressively clapping his father on the shoulder.

‘First of all, they’re called payos. Moron! Second of all, I wouldn’t talk. You wear that stupid Rastafarian hat with the fake dreadlocks. What kind of idiot wears a hat with fake dreadlocks attached to it? It looks like your head is taking a shit! BAhahah, your head’s got diarrhea!’

Even the old man can’t suppress his laughter. For all his two sons combined possess the meager intelligence of a gnat, they can, on occasion, conjure up some pretty funny shit to say.

‘You’re a fake Jew!’

‘You’re a fake Rastafarian!’

‘Doo doo Jew Jew!’

‘Rasta-FART-ian!’

‘Boys,’ the old man yells in interjection, ‘get the fuck out of my room already. I’d rather shit myself than spend another waking minute with you two monsters.’

‘Pops likes me more,’ Moishel says, pulling his matzah ball soup from the microwave.

‘Nuh uh. Dad likes me more. I’m his favorite. Not you. Me. Not you,’ Bob says, stabbing his fork into the Jerk chicken. He raises the thigh to his mouth and tears off a bite. The Jerk spice smears across his lips, chin, cheeks, nose, and somehow his forehead.

‘Likes me more!’ declares Moishel, filling the spoon with broth and flinging it at Bob.

‘Likes me more!’ declares Bob, firing off a chicken bone. ‘Ha, got you in your fat stupid face.’

‘No way! You totally missed me by a mile.’

‘Then what’s that black spot on your face. You wipe your ass with your cheek again!’

‘Wait wait wait,’ Moishel utters all of a sudden, ‘turn the TV up. Alice Hutchinson is on!’

‘Oh man, Alice is on. I love Alice. She’s my favoritest NY 1 reporter ever in the world.’

Bob lowers his throwing arm and reaches to turn the volume up, mindlessly smearing the volume knob with chicken grease.

Equally silent and motionless Moishel and Bob are enraptured by Alice Hutchinson. In an aroused response to the sudden appearance of the short, stocky, red haired NY 1 reporter, Moishel rams his finger up his nose and Bob sandwiches his hands between his butt and the chair. Each is vibrating with absolute, unrestricted joy.

‘Fort Greene is now one of Brooklyn’s hippest and trendiest neighborhoods,’ Alice says against a backdrop of an elegant row of brownstones. ‘Over the years the neighborhood has changed from violent and crime-ridden neighborhood to popular cultural and culinary destination. This historically African-American neighborhood was at times home to some of America’s most famous cultural icons, from Walt Whitman and Richard Wright to Chris Rock, Spike Lee and Roise Perez. In fact, the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church, located right behind me, even played an important role as a stop along the Underground Railroad.’

‘But the positive changes have been accompanied by some potential negative ones as well. Gentrification has led to a measurable increase in rent for both residents and businesses. Research shows that rent for two bedroom apartments is, on average, in excess of two thousand dollars a month. Older residents of the neighborhood lament the increase in rent prices, some of whom I spoke with earlier, telling me that even as short as ten years ago, rent was cheap and affordable. However, with new luxury developments in the area sprouting up, boasting modern elegant names like The Empyrean and Beam, it does not seem like rent prices are set to drop anytime soon.’

‘Oh my god,’ Moishel says flinging his head over to face a fully engrossed Bob, ‘are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘How much you’d like to smear cream cheese and berries all over Alice Hutchinson’s body?’

‘No, you putrid asshole.’ Moishel claps the palm of his hand against his forehead. ‘Dad’s building in Fort Greene. You know, the one we just so happen to be the supers of and will one day inherit when dad dies?’

‘Don’t talk about dad dying!” shrieks Bob in horror of the nightmarish thought of his father passing on from this world and into the next, which, ever since he was a kid, he’s always imagined to look like Coney Island.

‘I’m not talking about pops dying, dummie. I’m talking about money. Raking it in like leaves on a fall day. Moolah, Bob. Dinero. You heard Alice. All these yuppies and hipsters, or whatever she was calling them. They are paying like thousands of dollars a month to live in Fort Greene. It’s this gerniferfrication thing she was talking about. Rich people with loot willing to pay whatever it takes to be hip and cool.’

‘What are you talking about Moishel? You’re drooling like a maniac. You see, I told you that being Jewish is like that rabies disease. All it makes you think about is matzah balls and money.’

‘And what’s wrong with money, Bob? What do you think bought you that fancy watch of yours? And that stupid Halie Selassie gold necklace? And those idiotic sneakers you’re wearing.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Bob rushes to say in defense of his recent purchases of awesomeness. ‘Besides, I just like spending it, not making it. That’s what dad is for. He’s the real estate genius around here. Not you, and definitely not me.’

‘Well, it’s about time we change that my dimwitted half-brother.’ A sinister smile stretches across Moishel’s face. To the best of his overweight ability, he jumps out of his seat and leaps across the kitchen, nearly stepping on the cat, Ms. Posnell. He presses the button to open the garage and leaves through the back door.

‘What are you doing?’ Bob asks in a simultaneous state of anxiety and merriment. ‘How do you plan on making any money off of dad’s building in Fort Greene?’

‘The name,’ Moishel reveals, his voice fading as he disappears out of the house. ‘It’s all in the name.’

Back in the kitchen a half hour later and Moishel is triumphantly displaying his most brilliant achievement to date: an irregularly shaped piece of wood upon which he carved three words.

‘The Hyp Replacement?’ asks Bob, scratching his head.

‘The Hyp Replacement,’ repeats Moishel, grinning widely, nodding his head knowingly. ‘The new and improved name of dad’s building in Fort Greene. You heard Anne, talking about those luxury new buildings with fancy names that get to charge those high rents. Well, Bob, welcome to The Hyp Replacement.’

‘But you saying hip. Why’d you write it like that?’

‘Man, you know nothing about marketing. Hyp, Bob. H-Y-P. It’s Old English for hip. We’re in the big leagues now. No more messin’ around.’

Bob angles his ass up and lets one rip. ‘Then let’s get ready to rumble,’ he says, cracking himself up. Moishel can’t help but join in.

Sandy readies the face and the hair and the armpits and the balls and the feet. It takes him all of ten minutes to get ready. Typical. What’s also typical. Vashti. Vashti spending two hours getting ready, three if you count the bathtub soak before the shower. That’s what’s typical. But do you know what, in the meantime, he’s snuck away to masturbate in the closet in the nook. He’s done twenty minutes before she finally emerges and says all annoyed, ‘are you ready to go?’

‘I’ve been ready for the past hour,’ he says with a heavy sigh. He’s a man of reason, of science, of rational thinking, but this brief, yet powerfully insightful exchange, is truly inexplicable.

‘Then why didn’t you say something?’

He rips the Honda down Flatbush Avenue. ‘Do you have to drive like a maniac,’ she says, pressing down on the phantom passenger seat brake. Speeding, imagining he’s driving a sports car, his one consolation. Although sluggish and lethargic on his two feet, he’s a demon driver in the seat. Unintentional rhyme. He can’t help but chuckle.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ she strikes back in her vulnerable state. ‘You better not be laughing at me.’

‘What? Huh?’ The shrill voice removes him from the intoxicating sensation. He turns to her. ‘No, of course I’m not laughing at you. If there’s one true forbidden in this world I can say for certain, it’s laughing at you.’ He’s speaks sarcastically, but his voice is nevertheless traced with fear. The last time he laughed at her she nearly broke his nose. He made a snide remark about her, at the time burgeoning vegetarianism; she threw frozen seitan at his face.

‘Watch where you’re going.’ Shrill voice, phantom brake. ‘You almost killed that biker.’

He’s quick to respond on the biker issue, ‘That biker killed himself by choosing to ride that thing in the first place. Besides, look, he’s biking like an ass. And also look at that helmet. Is that a beet? Does that helmet really say I beet NY. MAJ, saying I heart NY is bad enough. But beet? What kind of pseudo-hippy shit is that?’

‘You’re so cynical, Sandy.’ Her voice is quiet, faded almost. Her tone is terse, grave. She turns away toward the window. Sandy can’t help it, he side lifts his ass and farts.

Sandy loves Jews. Sandy hates Jews. He grew up among them in northern New Jersey. In fact, the Chinese and the Jews are very similar people. Hard working and money/power loving, but gentle, philosophical, usually nonviolent and very charitable. The truth is that his family’s foundation funds literacy programs and medical clinics across the impoverished areas of New Jersey. It’s just too bad his mother is a manipulative, greedy psychopath.

‘Sandy, Sandy,’ his best college friend, Kennedy, announces in front of everyone. Kennedy is the Chinese man Sandy is not. Perfect height, well proportioned, facially angular, athletic, charming and, most of all, ambitious. ‘Are you with us?’

‘Of course, I am, Ken,’ Sandy responds secretly grateful for the public attention from the man of the hour, but also annoyed that he’s referencing Sandy’s tendency to enter into waking sleep states, an affliction he’s carried since as far back as he could remember. ‘You’re planting a tree for Tu B’shvat.’

‘But not just any kind of tree,’ he chides Sandy, wagging his finger patronizingly in his direction. ‘A symbolic tree dedicated to the love for our friends and for one another.’ The other in the one another combination is Kennedy’s wife, Edith, a long, narrow dash of feminine with shockingly pert breasts and a robust ass. Her face is homey, but beautiful, harboring the kind of expression that soothes, reassures and warms. The ideal kind of woman as far as Sandy’s concerned, and he’s thought so ever since he met her freshman year of college.

The other couples ‘ooo’ in reply to Kennedy’s shallow sentiment. He then takes the shovel, punctures the pile of dirt, and transfers some to the pre-dug hole surrounding the base of the tree. Everyone is encouraged to take a turn shoveling dirt into the hole, almost as if, Sandy can’t help but think, they were at the funeral for their self-respect as adults. He can expect children to be so vulnerable to participating in idiotic rituals, but grown men and woman to so willingly comply, it’s just humiliating.

Sandy shovels the dirt in just as Kennedy decides to lean in and kiss Edith. He spies from the corner of his eyes. A sharp feeling emerges in the center of his chest. He attempts to direct the pain and misery into it, hopes to cultivate its power so that the sharp feeling spreads throughout his body.

‘Time for the Tu B’shvat seder,’ Edith announces through her airy voice. Sandy is instantly warmed to her yet again. He looks at Vashti, obsessively picking at her teeth with her thumbnail, muttering to herself about something, and then at Edith, an immovable pillar of grace and beauty, depth and balance.

T-minus thirty minutes.

He’s in the upstairs bathroom, urinating and texting at the same time, confirming the time and place of the mock theft after which Sandy will emerge the victor, the hero, the knight in shining armor. Interesting how versatile Craigslist is. He’s found apartments and bought furniture, applied for jobs and laughed over the personals, but he’s never once posted a listing for an actor to be used in the orchestration of a live action attempt to redeem his masculinity through the attempted theft of a dog. He hasn’t had sex with his wife pretty much since the summer. She thinks he’s a loser fool. He’ll do just about anything to stir up her love for him.

It’s on his way downstairs that he instead ends up stepping over the gate and into Kennedy and Edith’s bedroom. At first it’s to say hello to Pedro the Pug. He squats down, cracks at the knees, and calls the dog over, ‘come here, you fatty little slug dog. Oh that’s right, who sounds like he’s farting through the mouth all the time. That’s right, it’s you.’ He’s shockingly affectionate with dogs; he’s also quite competent at gaining a dog’s loyalty through a series of strategic behind the ear and along the neck scratches.

The greeting to Pedro then evolves, in a rather nonsequitor way, to opening the dresser drawers. Curiosity trumps tact. Soon enough he’s reached the treasure chest of drawers, Edith’s underwear. The sight of the multicolored undergarments makes him vertiginously aroused. Again, he hasn’t had sex with Vashti pretty much since the summer. Masturbation has been his only recourse. The following action is founded in a desire merely to touch the underwear, but quickly turns into a fetishistic need to remove a pair of black underwear and place it in his pocket.

‘Pedro, come here boy,’ Edith calls out from the hallway, footsteps fast approaching.

Sandy slams the drawer shut and spins around, catching sight of Edith just as she’s stepping into the doorway. ‘I beat you to it,’ Sandy says. ‘I just couldn’t leave this guy alone.’ He squats down, knees crack, and pats Pedro on the head. In turn, Pedro licks his fingers.

‘You’re too kind, Sandy. I love that even at a party you think about Pedro’s well being.’ She approaches Sandy, an unusual fervor in her footstep.

‘It’s the least that I can do.’

‘Oh, trust me. It hardly is.’ She moves a couple steps closer so that she’s now standing close and direct in front of Sandy. Any closer and he’s convinced she’ll be poked by his growing erection.

‘So the Tu B’shvat party. Great time. You don’t get to go to a party like this every day. Tree planting. Very environmental.’ He knows that he’s talking, but loses focus in her strong, encompassing gaze.

‘I’m so glad to hear you say that.’ Her hand rises, touches his arm. The blood gates open, the pressure against his khakis increases. ‘Really, Sandy. You don’t know how much that means to me. I’m so glad we’ve remained friends all these years. Our friendship means so much to me. Honestly, it does.’ She takes a sudden step forward and embraces Sandy, her body fully pressed against his. Although anxiously embarrassed by his nearly full blown erection, of which she must surely feel, he responds to the hug and wraps his long arms around her narrow body, taking whatever physical contact he can get.

T-minus five minutes.

All is going according to plan. He’s out walking Pedro, currently watching the dog dig his nose into the nook of a sidewalk tree’s roots. Park Slope, he laments. What a waste of space. Honestly, nothing more detrimental to urban culture than the abusive urban liberal yuppie. He takes out his phone, calls his wife. ‘Vashti,’ he announces in an assuringly enthusiastic tone of voice, ‘you have got to come outside. It’s absolutely gorgeous out. You can even see, like, eight stars tonight. It’s totally wild.’

A quick text chat with his hired hand and all set. A couple minutes later he looks up and Vashti is just stepping outside of the brownstone. But seriously? Kennedy is with her? Did she really have to bring him out as well? No matter, he’ll redeem his masculinity to him as well.

‘Hey guys,’ he calls up. ‘Can you believe this night?’

He vaguely hears the footsteps approaching, but nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. The knock to the head comes from behind. Of course he falls and relinquishes his grip on the leash, which is whisked up the assailing force. From his prostrate vantage he watches as three silhouetted figures run their way down the sidewalk, lifting Pedro up on the way, and disappear out of sight.

‘Is that Lady Gaga I’m hearing,’ Sol responds, his mood suddenly elevated at the spirited sound of his favorite singer. ‘Now that’s what I’m talking about.’ He raises his hands up and pumps the air above his head.

‘Shots?’ screams the salesman into Sol’s ear, then tilting his head toward the kitchen. It just so happens that the next song to play begins with a recording of gunfire.

Sol mistakes the sound for real gunfire and immediately drops to the ground and covers his head. He mutters to himself fearfully, ‘I knew I should never have come to Brooklyn. So what if what happened happened. I shouldn’t lose my life over it. I love you, mom, dad, sister, brother. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done, just please don’t let me die. Not like this.’

‘My off-white, brother,’ the salesman begins to say as he kneels down to speak frankly with his Caucasian victim of misunderstanding, not an uncommon occurrence among this racial and cultural community, where the worst is almost always assumed. ‘I meant shots as in liquor, not shots as in gun.’ He offers his distraught friend a warm, conciliatory smile, pats him on the back to reassure.

In the kitchen the fundraiser bumping all around the enormous loft space, the salesman pours two shots of tequila. ‘One for you,’ he turns around, handing Sol the glass, their fingers grazing. ‘And one for me.’

‘L’chaim,’ Sol says, raising his glass.

‘Salud,’ replies the salesman. Shots downed and glasses refilled. Shots once again. Faces wince and balled fists in the air.

‘So I have to ask,’ the salesman says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘What are you?’ Voice deepens and gets serious.

‘What am I?’ Brow bent, Sol is obviously perplexed. ‘My name is Sol. I’m from the Upper West Side, born and raised.’

‘Ha, no,’ he responds with a light tap to the arm. ‘I mean, like what are you, are you? You know? Eth-nic background and all that. Where’s the mama from? The papa? I can’t tell what you are, but I’m getting hints of Puerto Rican and/or Cuban? Am I hot on the trail or what?’

The mention of hot. Sol is suddenly paused and transported. Vision reduces to a single viewing hole, which he passes through at an instantaneous rate. He’s just fallen into the stall door. The door busts open. He falls down, cracks his knee on the floor. Looks up, and there’s Roger the Dapper Queen, those beckoning eyes beaming.

‘My man, yo, man, you there?’

Sol comes to being shook by the salesman. His skinny hand is surprisingly strong, firm. The fingers are gripping into his shoulder. Sol looks down and then into the man’s eyes. They are nondescript, but overall comforting. He imagines leaping in, swimming in the veiny white pools surrounding the gooey brown center.

‘I’m all right. I’m okay,’ Sol finally responds, feeling his body reinstated into reality. It’s like something’s happened to him over this past month. He never could have predicted the negatives from full on borough transformation. Through immersion he has entered a new state of something or other. Separation from family, friends, job, all keystones in his life, but now he’s subsisting on a mere prospect – that he’ll strike it rich in Brooklyn.

‘So, then. Where were we? Ah, yes. The hidden secret background of Mr. Sol, the mystery of mysteries.’

A ‘gather round’ is called. The conversation is cut short. All attention face forward, to the stage, a semi-proper affair constructed on well and firmly placed wood pieces. The back peach wall is illuminated by a series of subdued lights attached to the exposed pipe running the length of the ceiling.

An appropriate, but still somewhat erotic musical track is turned on. ‘For the Haitians,’ rhythms the MC, ‘it’s time to help them help you.’ The crowd gets the joke, is self-conscious about it, and laughs modestly.  ‘Our first young woman of the night to kindly participate in this date auction, the lovely Yaaaaaya.’

Obligatory applause and out Yaya trots, a stunning display of female if Sol ever saw one. Seriously; his mind is blown. Slowly, but objectively oriented, he pushes his way through the crowd, annoying some, humoring others – ‘look at this guy’s eyeballs poppin’ out of his head’ – until he’s front and center.

The MC questions, ‘are you ready for the owww-ction?’ His tone is a jazzy derivative, enjoyable, but almost exactly what you would expect for a well-intentioned, yet ultimately insignificant local neighborhood event.

‘Yaya, a Brooklyn girl, born and raised, is an aspiring nurse who’s currently pursuing a career in television acting. Her pilot, One Hanson Place, about a young, independent minded black female and her group of diverse, NYC loving friends, just maybe, if it ever gets finished, will get picked up by a major television network.’ The MC stops abruptly, covers the mic with his hands, and leans over to Yaya saying in an exasperated tone, ‘Did you really write this? Don’t you have any idea how to sell yourself to an audience? This is boring as shit.’

He tosses aside the pre-written card and improvises, ‘Yaya, a fiery young black Brooklyn female is on a mission to help rebuild Haiti. She’s bursting all over with a passionate energy to make a difference, but she needs your help. Let’s start the bidding at $50.’

The audience takes a moment to digest the option. Men nod, lick lips, scratch balls. Women, jealous looks in their eyes because, after all, Yaya is gorgeous in the form of a tall, but not exceedingly so, and proportionate woman with blue eyes, naturally flowing hair, incredible breasts, and a fantastic ass.

‘$50,’ shouts the husky black gentlemen.

‘65,’ shouts another. Yaya smiles at the crowd, warming up to the attention, however vile she actually considers it, but in the end, how could she possibly turn down this job? $50 will go a long way in her noxious bout of unemployment.

’75,’ one man. ’85, the other. ’95,’ one man. ‘105,’ the other. And so on.

Sol emerges from the trance, mouth parched, forehead perspiring. It finally occurs to him that he needs to bid. He tries to speak, but tongue and lips all stick together. Drink, he needs to drink before the bidding is over. He maneuvers through the crowd, a frantic off-white boy on a mission. Squeezing, and twisting and squeezing, etc. He emerges out the back end, ‘155,’ he hears.

He runs to the bar. ‘Drink please,’ he states breathlessly. ‘None left,’ the bartender wryly mimics. Sol retreats, examines the peripheries, then spots the salesman, alone in the back, available. And so it seems that in some cases impulse dictates behavior, Sol runs toward the man, stops in front of him, grips his head unapologetically, brings said head closer, presses lips against lips, pushes tongue through into mouth, soaks said tongue with other man’s saliva, retracts, and calls out unconsciously, but ferociously, ‘I’ll buy that girl for $1,000.’

The audience immediately silences. Shock for two reasons. One) did someone just really bid $1,000, in this economic climate?? And two) shit, did that white guy really just say he’ll buy that black girl for $1,000?

holler.

the penis bear trap.

male chastity belt.

the cage.

cornflakes.

If there’s one thing she truly misses from back home, it’s her garden, was a second child to her, like her bike is to her now. She misses waking up at sunrise and walking to her designated plot. She misses squatting down, running her fingers over the dirt, up the stalk and over the leaves of the tomato plant. The garden was her creation with Mother Nature, binding her to the profound, eternal spirit of natural growth and prosperity.

Now what do we have here? She squeezes the various lumps, ninety percent sure that it’s some kind of bread. She smoothes out the plastic and stabs the Leatherman through, sliding the knife down so that in a moment bagels erupt through the gash, solid, intact bagels that belong no where near a dumpster. She forages the best of them into her backpack, which is already half full of plastic wrapped vegetables.

Satisfied she’s packed enough for at least a couple weeks worth of bagels, she tosses the bag over and pushes up on the siding to jump out. Pressure applied but thwarted. Something holding down her foot. She reaches down through the pile of plump black garbage bags, feels a rubber tube or something, pushes it aside, whispers ‘freedom’ and jumps over and onto the sidewalk, like a cat all agile like.

With a steady core she uprights and notices immediately something amiss. A second later and she realizes her backpack is missing, a gone daddy gone. What the shit, she spins around, looks here, looks there, and then hears the howl, a long, nasty howl. Turns and there’s the backpack, at the mercy of a mystery man, attached to a bi-wheeled vehicle, fading into the nightly distance of Atlantic Ave, westbound toward the harbor.

Coffee coffee coffee. Something about it that makes it so right. Early early morning she’s laid across the banquette. Waitress, with that seen all types of shit in my lifetime expression, appears and asks, ‘what can I get ya?’

‘Coffee. A bagel with cream cheese,’ Eloise replies, a distant languish in her tone; the loss of the backpack, cuts deep at her central well being, subverts her safe sense that Brooklyn is all the borough that it can be. It’s the 21^st century, seriously, can this shit really still be going on? People stealing from one another? Bullying and victimizing one another into fearful submission?

The waitress leaves. A minute passes in breathful silence. Her eyes are closed, faith in the process of restoring. She thinks back to Jordan. The weightless feel of him. His sour expressions. The time he shit dripped his diapers. It’s not fair she wags the head. Not fair at all.

‘Excuse me, lady,’ the husky male voice yells from far too close for comfort.

She sits right up.

‘Where’s the bathroom nearby?’ She immediately notices the eyes, gets taken in by them, their sweet wrinkled gentleness, and then the nose and lips, a droopy duet of facial feature. She never had a grandpa alive but now more than ever she wishes she could just reach out and say, ‘grandpa.’

‘The bathroom,’ she instead goes, ‘I have no idea.’

She opens the door to her luxurious rent controlled basement apartment, runs down the hallway, stripping down as she runs, leaps onto the bed, and rolls under the covers. She sits up so that the heavy blanket is resting on her head, which in turn creates a tent like atmosphere. She grabs the flashlight from the nightstand and the visual diary from under the pillow, and begins to sketch out the highlights from the past month’s antics.

She begins early on with the impromptu dance performance over the bubble wrap, made that much more sultry by the presence of her upstairs neighborhood peeping out through the window; she acted like she didn’t notice him there, but she most definitely did. The mushroom induced conversation with her Chinese male fairy godmother and the subsequent race with the tortoise in Ft. Greene Park. The painting party in Williamsburg, the dinner party on the Lower East Side, and the anti-party party in Ditmas Park all make the list. And lastly for now, the unexpected theft of her backpack by the howling menace. The pencil sketches furiously, minutes pass.

And what the hell is going on upstairs, the thought suddenly renders. It sounds like someone is having a seizure up there. She relinquishes control of the sketchpad and pencil, unearths herself from the tent, and angles her right ear toward the thumping sound, taking a solidly thoughtful moment to consider its source.

She decides on two courses of action. One, call 911. Or two, investigate further. More of the Harriet the Spy school of thought, she decides to check it out. Clothes back on, she’s out the backdoor and into the garden, a rugged display of dirt and shrubbery. A busted up toilet seat with an ill potted plant stands in the corner by the electrical pole.

Slowly up the metal deck steps and into a mobile crouch position. One step, another. Stop. Repeat. She arrives at the window and peeks through the curtain. At what she bears witness to she experiences first surprise and then arousal. A quick look around and she doesn’t hesitate to join in the fun. Her eyes fixed on the shaking back of the large Asian man curled over the laptop she unbuttons her jeans and slides her hand below the waistline. There’s a first time for everything.

Like nothing else in existence, she wants Michel back.

Speak of the sexy devil there he is, Turkish tea and jelly donut predictably in hand. She immediately straightens her back to conceal herself fully. She waits a moment then very slowly moves her head forward and angles her eyes in his direction. Although observing from across the street, she follows his every movement. She misses that fine round ass and those broad shoulders and shaggy hair, not to mention his tattoo sleeve, a visual narrative of his turbulent, yet exotic childhood in the south of France.

Mom, Millie, what the? Yaya watches her mom, the petite white woman with trademark curly Jewfro, enter the restaurant. What is she doing going in there? She hated Michel, disparaged and condemned him. The illogic of the situation causes Yaya’s face to squirm. She’s unable to explain the connection, get at the root of it. Yet before she can address the enigma further she’s interrupted.

‘Yaya? What are you doing to that tree?’

She turns around suddenly. ‘Dmitri,’ she exclaims. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘What am I doing here? I’m meeting Michel to discuss some restaurant related business. Make money money, make money money.’ He’s both playing into the famous expression and mocking it. That’s just the kind of person he is, a shady douchebag who only uses people to accomplish his end game above all else. ‘The question is, what in sketchy’s name are you doing here?’ He pauses a moment to prepare himself. ‘Yaya and Michel chillin in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g, first comes fucking, then comes cheating, then comes your ex-girlfriend ironically stalking and spying on you from across the street.’

‘Wow,’ she replies, unwilling to let him stir her up.

‘What?’ He plays innocent. She can’t stand his smug laid back nature and his weird Californian Russian accent. Seriously, no one can be chill and Russian at the same time. It’s a total and utter contradiction of being.

‘I’m researching a new role,’ she improvises. ‘It’s about, um, a girl and a, um, tree.’ She turns to the tree, looks up at the bare branches, then at the trunk, patting its coarse layer of bark, then moving into a caress.

‘Sounds fascinating, Yoyo.’ His petty nickname for her.  ‘A story about a lonely black girl and a tree. Can’t wait to see how that comes out. I can see the poster now, The Yoyo Tree Grows in Brooklyn. At the very least, I’ll make sure to smoke some trees beforehand.’ Then further like a moron he feigns smoking a joint.

‘You’re an ass, Dmitri. I hope you know that.’ She can’t believe she pseudo-slept with this guy, let him bring his penis anywhere near her luscious lady parts.

An hour later and she can’t believe she’s at Denzel’s Lounge with him, his filthy hand crawling up her thigh, closing in on the very last place she wants him to be. The sultry, insecure thoughts of Michel, the confused, ill willed thoughts toward her mother have long since dissolved into the multiple orders of beer and liquor drinks. No matter what shit storm is swirling all up around her, she’s feeling good right now.

‘Are you going to take this shot with me or what?’ Dmitri shouts from across the table.

‘I was gonna ask you the same thing,’ she yells back, raising the shot of tequila to his shot suspended above the table. They clink glasses and kick back.

‘Bartender,’ Dmitri shouts across the bar, ‘one more round for my precious friend and I.’

‘Me,’ she says.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said my precious friend and I. That’s a hypercorrect statement. You should’ve said me and my precious friend.’ Yaya unconsciously tongues the remaining drops of liquor from the shot glass.

She has no idea how much time has passed since her inadvertent rendezvous with Dmitri, but now she’s stumbling through an obnoxiously large crowd of tightly packed people screaming and chanting and fist throwing and sign waving and is that Martin Luther King, Jr.’s face? What is going on?

‘You look lost, sweetie?’

Yaya turns, rubs the eyes, attempts to unblur reality. The woman who spoke, she’s a tiny Hispanic woman with blonde highlights, large nostrils and a sparkling gold tooth.

‘Lost and found up in here,’ Yaya screams into the crowd.

‘Oh, my darling, darling, you need some water.’ The woman reaches into her tote bag stuffed with pamphlets printed on pink paper. ‘Here you go. Drink up, drink up.’

Yaya grabs the bottle from the woman and squeezes in the general direction of her mouth, yet ultimately squirts the water over her cheek and chin. ‘Ahh, feels so good. Water! Water!’

‘Oh, Jesus, Jesus, what would the great Dr. King think seeing one of his beautiful daughters in this state? My word.’ The woman reaches up and rests her hand on Yaya’s shoulder. She looks boldly, sincerely, into Yaya’s crossing eyes and says, ‘It seems like it’s time to do God’s work.’

‘God’s work,’ Yaya recalls the woman’s mellifluous voice, not to mention her glittering gold tooth. What a significant moment, she reflects with unusually self-aware clarity. It seems, as she sulks her way back home, that’s she’s beginning to sober up, the abysmal emotional void re-emerging as the alcohol drains from her system.

‘What you talking about, Willis?’ A woman’s deep voice shouts. Yaya is approaching the corner of S. Portland and Dekalb, a rotund black woman in a purple jacket is shouting at a rotund white man in a purple jacket.

‘You did not just go Different Strokes on me,’ he shouts back, pulling back on mangled lips to expose an abstract array of black, grey and yellow teeth.

‘Your name is Willis, right? Willis?’ She taunts and moves forward, setting up for her next move. Yaya watches the right hand curl into a tight fist.

‘You know no one call me Willis. Why you gotta be like that, boo boo? All I got is love for you in my heart. Right here baby, my heart is for you and you only.’ His trembling hand unzips the jacket, frantic fingers point at his chest, unfortunately on the wrong side of where his no doubt degraded heart beats.

‘You say your heart is for me, but what about your dick for Jolene. What you think about that, WILLIS?’

‘I said no one calls me Willis?’ The man, bowing his head, heedlessly charges forward. The woman, waiting for this moment all along, steps aside and readies her fist for the imminent head blow.

And then it overcomes Yaya’s sense of purpose and understanding, a flash of destiny. Playing Joan of Arc. The run in with the divinely inspired Mexican woman. How could she have not made sense of it before? She is the Daughter of Christ, the Son of God.

A bold, confident, purposeful step forward and she grabs the woman by the wrist, a moment before the fist is to make contact.

‘There will be peace among us,’ Yaya pronounces in a holy voice that’s not her own. ‘And so it is written that fat, deranged woman shall lift no hand to fat, deranged man.’ Yaya pauses, assuming a reverential pose that now befits a woman of her righteous stature.

‘But it don’t say I can’t lift my hand to your sorry light skinned ass, you crazy ass bitch touching my wrist like she my slave master.’

Yaya comes to, neither aware of time nor place. Someone is applauding, a gentle clap at a measured pace. Her eyes struggle open. A man with curly hair on top and a braided ponytail draped over his shoulder and down his chest is standing tall before her. She must be sitting down.

‘My, my Yaya, that was a brave and inspired performance. I didn’t think you could reach such authentic heights with that stunted emotional behavior of yours. But you surprised me. You really surprised me.’

‘Oxford,’ she mumbles. ‘What are you doing here?’

Her old director smiles; they haven’t seen each other since he abruptly, inexplicably, stormed off the set, which so very thusly vanquished all hopes for Yaya’s television pilot to get made. ‘Well, I’m here to check up on you, of course. Make sure the star of my future play is up to muster.’

He ends up in the middle of the living room, turns and repeats. He imagines the flashes of light bursting from the cameras. He imagines the ethereal music playing overhead. Just over there he sees Lady Gaga. Beside her sit other pop icons like Madonna and Kesha. He breaks from his serious runway pose and waves. They wave back. He’s ecstatic to be the center of their attention.

He wonders how everyone back at work is doing. He then quickly un-wonders. He must remain committed to the cause. He will strike out on his own. He will make his money in Brooklyn. He will do as his grandfather did before him. He will prove his father wrong. He will prove his mother wrong. He will prove his brother and sister wrong. He is his own man.

Thank God for Bacardi Breezers. He pulls the six-pack out of the fridge. He drinks one, then another. In no time at all he’s gone through all six. His lips are coated red and he’s thoroughly breezed. It’s runway time again. Left foot over right foot over left foot and then into the wall and onto the floor. Balance has been compromised. No matter. He delightfully rolls around on the floor until his attention is suddenly gripped by hostile yelling from the outside world.

‘I’m gon’ kill you, dumbass bitch.’

He crawls his drunken body to the living room window overlooking the park. Pretty much afraid for his life he peeks his head up just enough for his eyes to see out. Otherwise all other body parts remain protected from those stray Brooklyn street bullets he’s heard all about from the movies, TV shows and rap music. In fact, he’s pretty sure his cousin’s ex-boyfriend was shot in the foot in Brooklyn, during a rustic bar brawl, a very tragic affair.

‘What mama, I didn’t do nothin’. You know I didn’t do nothin’. I was home the whole time. I swear on my grandmama’s grave,’ the fat white man screams at the fat black woman.

So authentic, Sol shivers with nervous excitement. The scene is all so blithe and carefree, but gritty and raw at the same time. In all his life in New York City he’s never witnessed anything so patently horrifying up close. Sure there were the homeless people he passed on the street that caused him to fearfully pause, but never anything as salient as a fat interracial couple fighting it out on their home turf (naturally, he assumes all homeless people live in the outerboroughs).

‘You think you can lie to me. You can’t lie to me. I lie to you but you don’t lie to me. Treatin’ me like a fool. Psh, I ain’t no fool. You the fool, that’s what. You the fool!’ The black woman yells, throwing a failed punch and nearly tumbling over.

Her head turns in Sol’s direction and he drops down instantaneously. What if she saw him? She’ll shoot him for sure. It’s a fact that crazy homeless people don’t like it when you spy on them. He can visualize the gun, hot and ready to blow. He’s too young to jeopardize his life like this. Yet the impulse to continue watching is too strong to suppress. Before he knows it he’s back from his bedroom, Flip Cam in hand.

‘You lie!’ he yells.

‘No, you lie!’ she yells.

‘Yea, you lie!’ he yells.

Sol is getting all this in HD. The small fat white man and the small fat black woman – each in purple bubble jackets and red hats – are pushing one another with an absolute, raw human intensity. It’s like he’s on a safari, closer to the savage wildlife than he’s ever been before. Or better yet, he feels like a reverse Tarzan character, the George of Civilization, come to explore the ancient jungle lands of pre-evolved human beings. The characterization is so thrilling he gives himself a raging hardon.

‘Oh yeah, just like that,’ he says as he pans the orange taped Flip Cam back and forth across the window. ‘Uh huh, yup, you two are doing great. I love the intensity. Keep it flaring. Yup, show me that ruggedness you Brooklyn people are so famous for.’ The tension is absolutely torrid. He unzips his pants, pulls out his dick and masturbates.

Afterwards he’s inspired to leave the apartment and explore the surrounding neighborhood. Although not sunny he dons his sunglasses and steps outside. Colder than he expected, he can feel his balls instantly shrivel.

He walks one block, turns, and then walks another. Eventually he finds himself on Fulton Street. Fulton, he repeats. Fulton. What kind of name is Fulton? Looking around he’s impressed that a place so brown and stumpy is able to function at all. He watches in awe as people enter and exit various stores. The local economy in motion, he humors himself.

The stroller passes first and then the ass. Sol is either dumbstruck or flabbergasted, he can’t decide which. Nevertheless, he follows the ass. It’s his first MILF sighting, and an ethnic one at that. He contemplates her background. Mexican? Indian? He can’t tell which kind of brown she is. And then the fantasy materializes: inside a helicopter over Central Park. He’s getting at her from behind, gripping at the hips and pounding. Down below unsuspecting park goers eat gourmet cheese and drink wine.

And what is this. Sol suddenly turns to the storefront window, leaving the MILF to fade into the distance. Wrapped around the neck of an African-American colored mannequin, it’s a revelation in fabric form, composed of a thrilling array of shapes and colors. He enters, the door rings his presence.

‘Can I help you?’ asks the black salesman. His hair is puffy on top and shaved at the sides. A gold hooped earring hangs from his left ear. A thin mustache graces his upper lip. His facial expression suggests enlightened indifference.

‘You absolutely can,’ Sol responds overjoyed, pointing speechlessly to scarf in the window.

‘I can’t say I know exactly what you’re pointing to, sir. It would be a great help if you used your words to communicate your immediate desire.’ The man’s tone is devoid of emotion. His cavernous eyes project no life energy.

‘The scarf,’ Sol blurts out. ‘I’m pointing to the scarf.’

At the checkout counter, the salesperson comments, ‘my oh my, isn’t someone a happy camper this afternoon.’

Sol twirls around and runways in response. ‘You bet your ass I’m a happy camper. Who would’ve thought that someone like me could ever find something so beautiful in a place like this?’

‘Excuse me?’ The man raises his eyebrows in disbelief.

‘You know, in a place like Brooklyn. I never would’ve thought.’

The man chooses to ignore Sol’s disparaging statement. ‘Your total is $50, sir. Will that be cash or credit?’

‘Are you serious?’ Sol exclaims, leaving his mouth hanging open for added emphasis.

‘Is something the matter, sir?’

‘Something the matter? Something the matter? I mean, $50? It’s just so cheap.’

‘Cheap?’

‘I expected you to say something like $500 at least. But $50. Are you sure I’m not ripping you off?’

‘Sir, I assure you, you are not ripping us off. We strive to offer our customers high quality African goods at affordable prices. Especially in this economy. So will that be cash or credit?’

‘Credit,’ Sol says instinctually. But just as the man is about to take the card from Sol’s hand he realizes something. They can trace his card to Brooklyn. He saw it on an episode of CSI once. Or was it NCIS? ‘No, no, no. Cash it is.’ Sol pulls out a $100 bill from his wallet.

‘Your change, sir.’

‘What’s this?’ asks Sol, lifting a pink colored flyer from the counter. ‘Fundraiser Date Auction for Haiti Earthquake Victims?

‘That’s right, sir. A fundraising date auction for the recovery efforts in Haiti.’

‘Recovery efforts in Haiti?’ Sol has heard the name before, but he’s not quite sure where Haiti is and why it’s in a state of recovery.

‘The earthquake, sir. Thousands dead, thousands more displaced. The country can use all the help it can get.’ He smirks to himself knowingly. ‘Maybe you would like to stop by? You can give money for a good cause and you never know, maybe you’ll the find yourself a nice date.’

‘A nice date,’ Sol repeats thoughtfully. He thanks the man, takes the flyer for further consideration, and runways out of the store, his brand new African scarf tightly wound around his neck.