Neighborhood Characters

Getting to know a neighborhood takes time.  When I moved to Thayer St. last June, I left behind the familiar faces who I'd been writing about on this blog for three years.  There were many more faces in my new neighborhood, but it wasn't until recently that they started recognizing me.  Here are just a few.

There is the neighborhood grease monkey who set up business near the fire hydrant outside the corner convenience store.  He wears oil-stained coveralls and his garage is the great outdoors, where he leans over engines and shimmies under cars all day, then pockets the cash. 

There is the woman who runs the corner convenience store, where in a pinch I buy a carton of eggs (careful to check the expiration date).  She used to stand behind the counter, eyeing me suspiciously.  Recently she smiled at me and said hello.  I had to do a double take.

There is Mr. Haddad who runs the competing convenience store down the street.  He was the first to begin recognizing me, when soon after I broke a bone in my foot, he sympathized and offered me the best coffee in the neighborhood (Egyptian strength).

There is the former bouncer who has lived here for twenty years, "Back then the neighborhood was really bad.  I came home one day and found a burglar in my place.  I pinned him against the wall, he boasted.  Then added, do you have window guards yet?  You need them.  And a security lock. 

There is the Asian man who runs the fish store across the street (best fish outside of China town).  Last time I bought salmon, he snuck two lemons in the bag. 

There is the Russian Lady of Ft. Tryon Park, who I often meet while on morning walks.  When Poochini rolls in the grass, she warns, You should check before he rolls there, it could be poop. 

There is the tightrope walker who strings his rope between two sturdy trees in Ft. Tryon Park and teeters across in the evenings. 

Then there is the Santaria Rooster of Ft. Tryon Park.  He appeared last week on the hill leading up to the dog park.  The other day, while Poochini galavanted with his doggie friends, the Santaria Rooster cock-a-doodle-doo'd.  The next morning, the Russian Lady of Ft. Tryon Park said, they bring them from the Dominican Republic.  For their woo doo rites.  I replied, guess he was the lucky one who got away.  What will he do when winter comes, she worried.  I had no answer.  Where do homeless Dominican roosters go during New York winters?  If only he could fly south...