After an hour of suspension in mid-air and some people watching, I am finally at the Brighton 5th Street stop. Gum wads speckle the concrete floors like spots on a Dalmatian. To my right appear rows and rows of roofs with little to no spaces between them. I feel like Mary Poppins in the scene with the chimney sweeps, only, I wish I could clean these rooftops. Suddenly, I am unequivocally aware of my bare shoulders as water drips steadily on me from the railings above. I intentionally did not bring an umbrella. Today is all about letting Brighton throw each of its unexpected elements toward me.
As people stare at me for my obviously un-protective wardrobe choice, I feel the crisp air. While markets cook food and trash litters the sidewalk, the ozone somehow smells of clean rain only edged with a little smoke. I keep walking, and the rainbow canopies of the shops reflect a myriad of colors like a prism for each raindrop. Almost all of the stores are markets and pharmacies. Do the people here love to eat and frequently become ill? While I ponder this question, I hear the squeak, squeak, squeak of tennis shoes and bike tires. I find it strange that I have not heard a train overhead yet.
Look here! A homeless woman approaches me mere pink crocs and a worn old gentleman’s suit. (Oh, there is the roar of that blast’d train!) Well, she asks for a dollar which I do not have, so I feel full of guilt as I pass her back toward the subway.
This is little Russia. The thick accents take me back to the nights of whining to my dad that twelve times was most certainly enough views of his favorite film, The Hunt For Red October! Now, today, I wish that B train downtown via 6th avenue could make me watch it just one more time.
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