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Dispatch from Greenpoint
By Lee Cohen
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Every
morning between the hours of five and seven there are anywhere from ten
to thirty Polish men standing in front of my door. My time between five
and seven is reserved for sleep, though I occasionally come home during
these hours, sometimes shuffling along drearily, cranky for bed, other
times bouncing, not at all tired. The Polish men are there no matter my
mood, shifting their weight, coffee cups, working boots, grins and yawns.
On these mornings, coming home, I navigate through them gently, careful
not to push, shove, disrupt. They are an intimidating bunch.
I have three questions for you, the collective group of men standing outside
my apartment between the hours of five and seven in the morning...
One: Why did Gargantuan feel the need to push little Polish man into my garbage cans that morning, shouting, pumping his fists, pacing back and forth? I admit that I did not see the actual push, just the aftermath, my fingers plying the blinds open a sliver as my heart raced, knowing that at any second a solid projectile could break my window, directly over the little Polish man, garbage on his lap, tin trash cans rocking in the push’s wake. What sort of atrocity had the little Polish man committed? I suspect it involved loyalty, though I have no proof of this.
Two: The obvious one. What exactly are you doing there every day? And why does it have to be in front of my apartment?
Three: Could we be friends? I’m curious as to whether it’s possible. There’s the time thing for one. I’m just not on my game between the hours of five and seven, and if I had to wake up at, say, four-thirty, giving me enough time to wake-up and shower before stepping outside, I wouldn’t be very articulate, not to mention upbeat and fun. I could be the token Jewish friend, the guy you keep around to add a little flair, a little excitement to your otherwise homogenous group. We might have things in common. Do you follow American sports? I like basketball, football, and the occasional baseball game. The language barrier is probably a deal-breaker though, isn’t it? I could be wrong, you could be completely fluent in English and simply choose to speak Polish, but I have a strong suspicion that your English is only a little better than my Polish. To illustrate my point I’ve included the following hypothetical conversation. (I’ve made your entire group one person just to simplify matters):
You:
Why hello! You’re up early today.
Me: Hello.
You: Would you care to join us? We were just discussing
the upcoming borough elections. Frankly we’re torn on the issue.
Is there a candidate you favor?
Me: Hello.
You: Ah, I see your Polish is not perfect. I will try
to speak slower, so that you might be able to understand me better. Is…there…a…candidate…you…like…in…the…election?
Me: Large coffee, two sugars?
You: Hmm. Obviously you don’t speak Polish at all,
aside from your pathetic coffee ordering vocabulary. You assumed that
because you’re an American we would accept you into our fold. Very
crafty. I noticed the other day, as I was stealing the sports section
from your New York Times delivery, that your last name is Cohen. Very
crafty, you Jews. Well, tonight I will show you that the Polish can be
crafty too, by firebombing your house. Would you like that, Mr. Cohen?
Me: With milk please.
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Lee
Cohen graduated from The New School in May, 2004. After living in Greenpoint,
Brooklyn for four years, he decided to move to Saigon for fairly ambiguous
reasons. Lee is currently writing for "The Guide", a monthly
supplement to "The Vietnam Economic Times". He can be reached
at lee.cohen@gmail.com.
©
2004 Me Three