Brooklynite
Entering the abandoned 1950s after hours club on First Street that would become my coffee house, September’s Child, I stopped dead in my tracks and asked myself, “How the hell did all of this happen? I was on top of the world in my management career, and I walked away from a shit load of money and perks for this?” Gazing at the furniture and décor that I had created from broken up packing crates, cable reels and other corporate debris, I asked myself, “Since I’m not totally nuts, perhaps there is a supernatural element within the bedrock of Brooklyn that compels those who stumble upon this enchanted boro to do things they never dared to dream of doing, regardless of the odds. But this? Okay, I realize that New York City water is the purest ever but when it hits Brooklyn, could it somehow become a magical elixir that unleashes an inner take charge force we never knew was there, even in our wildest dreams?”
Out of the blue, a cloud with the silhouette of a smile passed over me, and I wondered, “If that mystical element does exist, and it could be given it a name, might that power be known as Brooklynite? Hell, yeah! Brooklynite’s a fitting name for an enchanted force that takes total charge of things! Why, even when they’re walking down to the trains, then running up to the day that turned to the night, Brooklyn people have a certain swagger that speaks of, “Hell yeah, I totally got this! Ya got a problem with that?” I thought, Hell no! The power of this Brooklynite force should not be taken lightly! Once, that whisper that grew to a shout filled my head, it blew open the illusory gates that has stood in my way of doing things I could otherwise only dream of. Once I began hearing that whispering though commanding voice of the Brooklynite, it became only a matter of time before it awakened that inner genie of mine who, like a ship out of water, had been sealed in conventional wisdom’s vacuum of indolence.
When I landed in this captivating boro, I would feel the force of the Brooklynite compelling me to do things I never imagined I could do. From the whispering lyrics of “We gotta get out of this place” that voice grew louder and louder as my evening commute brought me ever closer to Park Slope. I often thought of walking away from being the corporate hack I’d become, then realized how I’d been drawn by the Brooklynite ever since a yellow cab driver suddenly hung a sharp right, then on to the Brooklyn Bridge while saying, “I gotta tell you kiddo, Manhattan ain’t the place for the likes of a guy like you! Every time we pass those arches out there, yer eyeballs stay stuck on them ’til yer lookin’ backwards. Kiddo, I think there’s a message in all that!”
“So, what do you think that might be, bro?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think, what matters is what you do about it. So let my golden Crown Vic take you to where the magic happens and you can see for yerself! Hey kiddo, I gotta earn my tip, right?”
As the cables began to swing upward to the top of the second set of arches, with Tillary Street dead ahead, I asked myself, “When I get there bags in hand, what the hell will I do to make a living?’ and then felt a force coming from a place deep within me, that I recently met, saying, “Hey, kiddo, you friggin’ got this! Keep your feet on the ground and your eye on the prize. The rest is friggin’ magic!”