Love Song
I got a sublet when I moved to Brooklyn, so that I could find a real apartment. It wasn’t actually a bedroom; it was long and skinny with two doors and a tiny bed. The window looked out on to Fulton Ave, right at a big busy intersection. I rented it from a friend of a friend, a shaved-bald hair stylist named Lizard who was never home. For a month I slept on a futon and tried to grow roots like an avocado pit saved in a juice glass.
I wasn’t used to the noise. New Yorkers will tell you how soothing it is to slumber through the rattling of the subway beneath you, the screams of a city that never sleep, and the sound of garbage collectors hauling and tossing all through the night. Highly adaptable from an itinerant life, I knew I’d get there soon. I slept with the window open through a shockingly warm October, five flights above Bed-Stuy.
Screams and laughter from the street, sounds of traffic and an unseen army of scavenger people pushing carts crammed with aluminum cans. Every hour, some unsung horologist would smash a bottle by accident or by design against the asphalt to leave diamonds at the crossroads for whatever god seeks sparkles in their offering. Within a week, none of that would wake me.
A few days before Halloween, a contender emerged to see what can wake the people of Brooklyn when all else fails to disturb. Just past two in the morning, a screech of brakes like the beginning a mob hit. No gunshots, but the sound of ever car door opening and a man bawling a woman’s name. Screeching like a cat in heat, like an animal helpless in its own desire. No answering call, no sound at all as everyone woke and waited.
Instead, he played a Hindi love song of such plaintive ardor that it seemed to fill the night with longing and a plea that went through ever window in search of its target. We held our breath through five minutes of chorus and refrain to see if Juliet would come to the fire escape and ask Romeo to deny his speakers and come make his claim.
Silence ruled the Brooklyn night.
Without an answer, the man swore and raged. He called her name again. I heard the sound of something thrown helplessly against the side of the building, more likely change from his pocket than pebbles. He went back into his car and hit the back button, starting the song up again.
The people of the block had endured his suit long enough. Voices called down to him in every accent, every attempt to help him retain his dignity.
“It didn’t work, bro. She don’t want you. Go home.”
“You have your answer.”
“Shut the fuck up out there!”
“Knock it off or I’ll come down there and shut it off myself, and you won’t like that.”
“She’s just not into you, man.”
We had all lain in bed through one round of romance, giving him the courtesy of the night. Now, we would take no more. I went to the window and counted the faces, the people who had gone to speak to him directly. I watched to see whether he would be pursuaded.
He didn’t look at the chorus. He kept his eyes trained on the leading lady’s wnidow. It was open, pink curtains stirred in the scant breeze. But she did not appear, and she did not speak.
Just as we swelled toward the chorus again, the man went back to his flung-open car and hit the button to make the sound stop.
One person said “thank you.” Another said “sorry, buddy” and someone yelled “sleep it off.”
No one called the cops or even threatened to. Everyone gave him a shot (except for her) and then came together in consensus that his grace period was over.
My grace period ended on the first of November, when my lease a mile away began. I dragged my bags down those five flights and took them to my new home. The rules are the same over here, but the street is less noisy. I sleep like a baby, and I am generous but firm about when to tell someone to shut the fuck up.