De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

He stood in front of his kitchen window, peering at me in my apartment, five brownstones away. Someone who had thrown me out of his life, as a friend, when I could not give him what he wanted.  We were friends a year ago, photography buddies, who took pictures together of a Brooklyn parade, and headshots of his niece for her modeling portfolio.  He held me when I cried about the violent death of  a relative, and the subsequent conviction of the one responsible.

I did not understand him. He did not understand me.  We were different…opposites, my small blond frame set against his looming six foot plus, dark one.   Yet we told each other truths that you do not tell acquaintances or friends with whom your reputation relies.  For a brief time, we reached across the heavy burden of our conditioning, and were friends.

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Today I told Jackie that I was moving.   I stopped to say hello as I always did, as she sat on her stoop in front of her brownstone.  Jackie, always says hello whenever I passed her on the sidewalk.  “How are you doing baby-doll, she says in her casual, authentic tone. When the drunk witch became too much to deal with… I found myself in Jackie’s apartment, pouring my righteous heart out. She played mediator, and confidant.  The drunk witch and I were able to stand down from our positions on the battlefield, because Jackie intervened.  Jackie understood, “You gotta do, what you gotta do, ” when the drunk witch resumed her reign of terror, and I had to take actions to protect myself.

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“The best tenant in the building is leaving, yet we couldn’t get rid of the worst one” stated my building’s super, named Mickey, referring, of course, to the drunk witch.  This was in fact the biggest, most open display of affection I had ever received, from her.  Although, I had always sought to maintain good relations with my neighbors, most of them looked at me, with an observed distance.  We were different.  For a time, the drunk witch and I were the only two caucasian tenants in the building.  I knew what their experience had been with her. I had hoped that the Halloween candy I put out for the kids, and the chocolate I bought back from Paris would be enough to soften the distance between us.  Mickey was always there, however professionally detached, to help me with my apartment or babysit my pets. I knew I could always rely on her, yet I never really knew her.  Was never invited to share a meal with her family, many of whom, live in various apartments in our building.  Yet I held back from moving sooner because there was always comfort knowing that she was there.

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Like Brooklyn, the drunk witch is fundamentally unchanged,  yet esoterically altered, like a highlight in your hair, or the type  of wine you might choose to order with dinner.   She finally kicked out the boyfriend of eight years who broke her arm, and fought in the hallway with her mentally unstable son.  She didn’t kick him out for the violence, or the infidelity.  She kicked him out when she found out that he was stealing her money.   Like Brooklyn itself, the girl’s got her priorities, however skewed and screwed up.

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