The Village of Bronxwood Avenue (A Kind of Fiction Series) Part 1

Not Bronxwood Avenue

I moved into a brand new building near Bronxwood Avenue. In The Bronx.

My apartment was on the second floor, hardwood floors and two huge, sunny picture windows overlooking a backyard with a massive three story tall Silver Maple tree adjacent to the right corner of the yard. It was a quiet, treelined street that was cut off from the rest of the neighborhood at each end with English Tudor style homes that gave the feeling you were looking at a row of gingerbread houses. Kids played basketball in the street while residents walked their toy sized dogs and smoked cigarettes.

I hadn’t lived alone in an apartment for almost 15 years. Since I left Boston I had lived with roommates then a boyfriend. Having been born there, grown up in New York City and had a lot of family there did not make up for two years of crazy roommates in Manhattan, noise, the ever present waft of urine and no escape on my mountain bike unless I wanted to hop on the train with it, I was ready to get out. The rental agent for my new building wanted to show me a couple more things and give me a housewarming gift and when she left I plopped on the couch and breathed a huge sigh. Home sweet home.

. . .

The first few days were uneventful. I puttered around the apartment, found my local library and scoped out the grocery and 99cents stores. I’m sitting home one early evening reading The New Yorker and there is a knock at the door. “Who is it?” “It’s the General.” What? I looked through the peephole and there is a huge mountain of a man who looked to be in his late fifties standing in front of my door. “How can I help you?” “I just wanted to welcome you to the building and let you know that I am a veteran and if anybody bothers you around here just let me know. Have a good night.”

Ok. That was pleasant enough I guess. I made some popcorn, went back to my reading then got ready for bed and turned the lights out.

The next morning I had to walk down to the post office to get my mail. The building is so new the post office doesn’t even deliver our mail yet. So, every day I had to go stand in line at the post office.

I’m walking out of the elevator and I bump into these two dudes. One is kinda short, has long dreadlocks, glasses and a big goofy smile with his two front teeth missing. The other guy looks like Eddie Murphy’s brother. “Hi. Hey there…..” says Eddie Murphy’s brother with a very un-sexy and disrespectful wannabe swag. “Good morning gentlemen.” I responded. As I walk through the door I hear Mr. Murphy whisper, “I didn’t know they had white chicks in this building, too.” Oh great, I thought. An asshole. The dude totally looks like a convict. He starts harassing me I’m reporting him.

I amble on down the nice quiet, tree lined street to get my mail. Fuck those guys. I’m walking on air. This is my home.

I get to my new post office and I’m buddies with the guy at the broken mailbox window now. “Do you know when they are gonna start delivering our mail?” “Nope.” “Ok, see you tomorrow!” I walk down the handicap ramp that leads out and I look down and see Bronx News. Miss Jamaica is on the cover. She is Chinese. I go around the corner to check out the Jamaican market and the proprietors are Chinese. Hm.

I think I’m gonna learn a lot living here.

I was making breakfast one morning and there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” “It’s your neighbor, Dirk. Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” I look through the peephole and there is a tall, caramel colored guy standing there. “Sure.” I open the door. Dirk’s caramel skin is complimented by freckles and a reddish tint to his brown, crew cut hair. A pleasant looking fellow with the largest set of dentures I’ve ever seen. They remind me of Jim Carrey’s teeth when he transforms in The Mask.

“Hi, thanks so much I really need some sugar I’m a diabetic.” Ok, I though that diabetics weren’t supposed to eat sugar but what the hell do I know?

“It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name? Where are you from?” “I’m Brenda I’m from Manhattan.” “Yeah, you look like you’re from Manhattan.” “A lot of people say that, I wonder why,” I quipped. “Maybe it’s because you’re white.” “Well, I’m half Dominican actually.” “Oh really, you’re Dominican that’s so cool. I don’t think we have any Dominicans in this building but we have some Puerto Ricans.”

Dirk continued, “I just moved in two weeks ago myself. I used to work in nursing but I can’t anymore because of my history.”

History?

“I’m going back to school soon for something else. As long as I keep going to my meetings...ha ha ha. They keep me on the straight and narrow.” He grinned. “I wish you the best with all of that, Dirk. It was nice to meet you.” I closed the door.

Little did I know this sugar thing was going to become a regular thing along with ice cubes. But, to Dirk’s credit, he makes some damn good fried chicken.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty and everyone in between.

@soulsistashakti is a chillout and dance musical artist and writer based in NYC. You can check out my music on my FB artist page at https://www.facebook.com/soulsistashakti

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