To avoid the guess work, you could just head over to Natasha’s
loft, at 666 N.6th street where every night was a party, until
the police arrived. In my Williamsburg you danced until the sun
came up.
Mornings, in my Williamsburg, were for getting a coffee at the
deli and going down to the East River and sitting on the rocks
and taking in the skyline. One of those mornings, while doing
just that, you might have seen an athletic looking old man swim
by, pause, raise his head, smile and wave and (after realizing
you were really seeing a man swimming in the East River) you’d
have waved back, smiling and thinking how peculiar and small the
man looked swimming against the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline.
Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge, in my Williamsburg, was best
done on a bike, because the faster you could get across the better.
The bike path consisted of loose slabs of rusted metal that all
too easily lifted up to expose the rushing traffic below. Graffiti
was piled upon graffiti and kids piled on more in broad daylight.
You never made eye contact with anyone on the bridge, especially
the crazy guys who set up camps and lived there (they rigged up
electricity and had little T.V.s and couches) and you never looked
down.
In my Williamsburg, it was not exactly safe, but you never felt
unsafe (because you were invincible), still you wouldn’t
tell your friends when you rode your bike home, across the bridge,
drunk, at four in the morning (because you were invincible), to
avoid the stern and well-meaning lecture you would receive. When
the sound of a gunshot woke you up at some ungodly hour, you would
be worried for a minute and then you’d fall back asleep
and in the morning you would forget entirely.
In my Williamsburg anything could happen, and with just a little
determination it always did. There was an air of camaraderie mixed
with an air of adventure, further intensified by the urgency that
comes with looming changes.
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