The Entropy of Melting Pots

July 14, 2005

Sometimes it's hard to decide whether to write about something right away, or to let things settle first. I had a couple drinks on an empty stomach last night, which made things even harder. The drinks helped the letters flow, but they flowed like vegetable soup being poured from a can, and didn't come together as actual words. That might be fine for poetry, but since that isn't what I was going for, this morning I erased it all.

But here's the gist:

Although we've both lived in New York for years, my friend Geoff and I rarely see each other. When we do, it's usually just a quick, "Hey, what's up?" at the occasional gallery opening, rock show, or corner store. Even when I rented an apartment just a few blocks from his, we still never hung out. We always said we should, however, and yesterday we finally did.

Geoff lives in a rent-controlled apartment in Williamsburg, paying a fraction of what the newcomers to the neighborhood are paying. He's not likely to move anytime soon. "My big fear," he says, "is that I'm going to die in that apartment." His neighbor, he tells me, is an old WWII vet who moved into the building after coming home from the war. "The guy probably pays 50 dollars a month in rent. He's definitely gonna die in his apartment."

Cheap apartments are such a rare commodity that, if you find one, you hang on as long as you can. It can feel like a trap.

We didn't meet at the rent-controlled railroad apartment, though. Geoff's cheap apartment affords him the ability to rent a huge Greenpoint loft for his business. He suggested we meet there.

Geoff's a muralist. He paints walls and floors for rich people. When I say rich, I mean rich. He's been to Saudi Arabia three times to paint murals for a Saudi Prince. One of them was for a room at the Prince's beach house. A quaint little 150,000 square foot getaway modeled after Lincoln Center.

Geoff's website is currently under construction, so I can't link to anything from his impressive portfolio, but I don't think I have to say much more than I already have to vouch for his talent.

We talked about various jobs we've been involved in, asked about college friends we've each stayed in touch with, and spoke about New York and how much it's changed. New York is always changing, of course, so if you talk about the way things "used to be," you sound like a bitter old codger. Since we're both equally bitter and old, however, we were free to sound that way without apology.

His Greenpoint loft is a block from the East River and has incredible views of the water, surrounding lofts, vacant lots, and Manhattan skyscrapers. The views are so interesting, in fact, that movie studios occasionally pay him to shoot scenes from his window. As we watched a seaplane land in the river, Geoff lamented the recent rezoning of the Brooklyn waterfront that will soon allow developers to build 40-story high-rises there. His inspiring view will soon become a flat wall of steel and glass. "My lease is up next year," he said. "I'm not sure I'm going to be able to afford to renew it. Even if I can, I'm not sure I'll want to stay. It's a great neighborhood, but soon it's going to be just like everywhere else. We'll see."

Forty stories is pretty fucking tall. Currently, the largest building in all of Brooklyn is the Williamsburgh Bank Building. It's thirty-four stories. Goodbye Greenpoint.

"Want to grab a drink?" said Geoff. "There's a nice place on the corner."

The local bar sits in the shadow of an old pencil factory and is called, what else, Pencil Factory -- a nice spot to finish the visit. After saying goodbye, I decided to walk for a bit. I strolled through Greenpoint, where the majority of signs are in Polish. The people on the street seem to all speak Polish, too. If you can't afford a trip to Poland, it’s the next best thing.

At the south end of McCarren Park, I was struck by the bizarre sight of a Hasidic guy in classic Hasidic dress — black yarmulke, white button-down shirt, and black pants — throwing a baseball back and forth with his Puerto Rican teammate, who was wearing a more traditional baseball uniform.

When I left the park, I hit an Italian street festival. A plaster statue of Saint someone-or-other sat on top of a huge obelisk carried by a bunch of neighborhood Italian guys.

"Clear da sides, clear da sides. We don’ want no accidents heah. Follow in da back is fine. Or meet us at da udduh end. Have a soda and wait faw us down deah. But clear da sides. We jus got a repawt from da cops. Dey say nine-tousan' people a heah. We don wan' nobody gettin' hurt, okay?"

I ping-ponged through the excited crowd to a zeppoli stand and bought myself a couple of balls of fried dough. The powdered sugar fell over my face, shirt, and hands as I squeezed through the hubbub and continued on my way.

When I finally hit Lorimer Street, still nearly two miles from my apartment, I decided to travel the rest of the way by subway. I stood next to an Amerasian hipster with shopping bags from a fancy SoHo boutique. He had a tattoo on his forearm of a nude devil wearing a top hat, and holding a cartoonish, fluffy white dog in front of his genitals.

"Aren't you afraid you'll get sick of that tattoo someday? " I silently wondered. Who knows, maybe he already is. I mean, I only had to look at it for ten minutes before I was.

And so on and so forth.