The Weather Has Changed

The weather is changing here in New York. Snow has given way to rain, then back to sleet and snow, and now to the cool spring breeze that carries the scent of Chinese food in the air. Old men sit on stoops, and the wild plumage of curvaceous black women lights up our Friday night walk.With Aiden on the road, I have been taking Stitch, our French Bulldog, out for walks a few times a day. He has daily routines, places he likes to frequent. It's not unlike me, with my favorite Thai place in Manhattan, the green grocer I prefer to frequent on the corner whose place always smells like some sort of salted concoction from the islands - even though the guys who work there are all Mexicano. As the weather has gotten better, Stitch has developed fans. The bald woman who has bedazzling on every pair of tight pants I have seen her in. The man with gold teeth in his impeccable suits. The guy with dreads who works at the bicycle shop.I don't know any of their names. They don't want to get to know me, and more than I really want to get to know them right now. They are fans of Stitch, not me. I am just the long-haired white dude who walks Stitch. And I'm okay with that. The only guy who is not in our building who I have talked for any time to so far is Mordecai, one of the local Hasidim that live along our block. He asked me if I was Jewish when we first met, and was disappointed when I said that I was not, but we talk anyway when we see each other on the street. He is the kind of guy who likes encouraging other Jews to be more devout, gifting one of our fellow apartment-dwellers with a mezuzah for the holidays, even though he didn't really want one.Racial tensions are interesting here. Our hispanic superintendent particularly has strong opinions not only of our observant Jewish landlord, but of other Jews as well. A few blocks to the west are a huge series of synagogues and gathering spaces for the hasidic Jews in the area, each sect set apart from the others through variety of wardrobe details. This group wears headscarves, and this group, wigs. One has a rounder hat, the other, more pointed. Some of the children have long curls, others are allowed to have none. Tallit strings wave out from under black jackets, blowing in that same breeze that brings the scent of Kung Pao chicken, and the incense sold by old black men over by the local Rainbow women's clothing shop.As the weather has shifted, so have the vendors. Street carts are blooming along the pavement, with an array of sights and smells to each type. This one, the Sikh gentleman who sells newspapers, an umbrella cleverly strapped into a backpack for rainy days, and a chin-covering made of tarp material for his white beard. This one, a book vendor who nothing but harlequin novels devoted to the exploits of black women. This one, a mango vendor who slices with expertise the green and gold skins away from the soft flesh beneath, slice after slice of sweetness falling into plastic bags, two mangoes for two dollars.The mango vendor I frequent is the wife of the car service driver we met recently at Costco, named Joel. I have never learned to drive, at the age of 33, and have no intention to. I tell people it is because of my epilepsy, but it is far more related to the spiritual vow I swore around the issue. Either way, I do not drive, and the reality is that a very low percentage of New Yorkers have cars anyway. In Manhattan you can see the swarms of yellow and black zip back and forth, but in Brooklyn, private car services hold swap. Thus, when we do large runs for groceries, when we need to get supplies for a party into town, when we need to get things out of storage, we can either rent a vehicle - or call Joel. We have a zipcar membership, and hope to explore those options soon... but there are no locations for pickup within an easy walking distance. In the meantime... it's Joel, who I like supporting anyway.When we moved in back in November, the air had turned cold, with people walking with their heads down to get to and from their business. But now, drinks on stoops and games of dominoes have broken out along the block. Well, along the next block over at least. Our block is still a bit quiet - unless our superintendent has his 8+ foot long ball python out. Everyone swarms up to see that thing, making me miss Olivia, the 6ft ball python who I care-took for a few years. Blind in one eye, she got spooked easily and would jump at things. We had to kill her prey for her after a live rat bit her on her bad side.The weather has changed here in Brooklyn. Friday night drunken flirtation in front of rolled-down security metal. Laughter and fighting, n-words slung about like candy that will never touch my lips lest it sound like ammunition. And this random queer boy walks his dog, laughing as I pass a guy who tried to cruise me on the DL a few weeks ago, because in this moment... I'm just the dude attached to Stitch's leash.