FiPS Readers Weigh In: My Horrible First Week in Park Slope

Image via Park Slope Lens

This comes to us from new Park Slope resident Myra, whose first week in the neighborhood was a less-than-pleasurable experience.

If you can recall Dorothy’s excitement at reaching the Land of Oz, then you can certainly picture my wide-eyed enthusiasm at the idea of moving to Park Slope. I wanted this land of Brooklyn milk and honey to be the home I never had. I'd been living with my nut-job parents for a year, since getting fired from my waitressing job in the city. My writing career never took off like I wanted it to, but I kept working the hated day job in hopes that one day it would. 

Cut to:  Me in my perma-sweats eating my father’s stash of Mallomars, watching my ass grow exponentially bigger and waking up every morning next to Vito, my Pit Bull, in my old twin bed with the Miss Piggy sheets. I was stuck on Long Island like a bad dream, writing my blog just to stay sane.  Then one day in between coupon scams and stealing restaurant paraphernalia, my parents dropped the bomb that they were moving to Florida. 

So there we were, driving around Park Slope looking for parking on a brownstone-lined street. Old clothes and furniture were lying around with “free” signs on them. My father, being the cheapskate that he is, wanted to take all of it. My mother suddenly began to cry over the fact that I was not yet married.

I needed a place to stay in the city, and a friend of a friend offered to let me and Vito come live with him in Park Slope.  You should have seen my face. Park Slope?! Isn’t this the Bohemian utopia of writers and creativity? The lefty-liberal paradise that my friends had told me about?  The place I had belonged but never lived?

“There are no fucking parking spaces,” my uncouth and overweight father shouted. 

“Just double park and I’ll unload my stuff,” I said as we rounded 7^th Avenue yet again.

My father announced that he needs to use the bathroom. I panicked. My greatest fear was about to come true. I hadn't even met this new roommate yet, and my father wanted to drop a deuce with an aftershock the size of Hiroshima in his bathroom. Surely he'd do it with no apologies, and then ask for a beer.

I tried to refocus my mind on how awesome and amazing it was going to be to live in Park Slope. I’ll frolic through Prospect Park with Vito, I thought.  I’ll burrow in the corner of a respectable café and dream up deliciously-worded stories.  I’ll garner inspiration as I peacefully stroll down the tree-lined streets.  And I’ll immerse myself in the camaraderie of the Food Coop. 

My mother spotted a black person on the street and warned me that I should always have a chaperone.  I reminded her that I am forty. My father double parked and, to my delight, only went number one in the bathroom. My new roommate, whom I'll call “Grant,” was a divorcee with unkempt hair. When we arrived he was on his way out to a 12-step meeting.  I said goodbye to my parents, who warned me not to fuck up my job interviews.

I had arrived.

THE FOOD COOP:

Before you can say, “cheap and organic,” I managed to get myself a coveted spot in a Food Coop orientation, and was accepted as a new member. Following months of eating packaged food at my parents’ house,  I was ready to indulge in some healthy food shopping. Maybe I'd even strike up a conversation with someone about the benefits of kale!

When I stepped through the pearly sliding gates of heaven on Union Street for my first shopping experience, I was greeted by a woman stationed at a computer in the front of the store. She was slumped on the stool, eyes sunken into her face, gray roots showing. Her listless face suggested that she'd rather be doing something else with her time.

“Hi,” I smiled.  “I’m a new member, but I don’t have my card yet.” 

She said something that sounded like, "What's your member number?" but I couldn't quite make it out. After years of dancing close to the speaker in nightclubs, I have the hearing of an eighty year-old. 

"My member number?" I asked.

She rolled her eyes, paused for a long time to ensure I felt my own stupidity, and finally said, “Yes.” 

My balloon of enthusiasm started to deflate. Feeling like an idiot, I told her I didn't remember my number offhand. She begrudgingly looked up my name on the list of new members and waved me in. At this point I just wanted to run to Met Foods and jump into the processed cookie aisle.  I wanted to scream at this troll woman. “Just because you’re working for free doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole! And do something about your roots – it might make you look less like Shrek!”

I took a breath and headed into the produce aisle, eyeing the Swiss chard like it was the Holy Grail. Suddenly a woman impaled my shins with her shopping cart. She was about 5'3" with long, black hair that covered most of her face, kind of like an Asian Cousin It. She glared at me and did not apologize, and instead made her way over to the broccoli. 

I stopped to rub my injured leg, unaware that one is not to stop moving in the Food Coop. People pushed by with sour faces. EVERYONE was in a rush at this place. There was barely enough room to move because restocking members took up nearly all the aisle space. Imagine a typical supermarket aisle.  Now imagine one third the width with ten people restocking and fifteen shopping carts trying to go by. I was too anxiety-ridden to enjoy the adventure of organic health at reduced prices. By the time I got on what felt like a three-hour line, I was sweating, my heart palpitating, and my head was bursting with curse words. Citizenry my fucking ass, I thought.

THE SIDEWALKS:

The next day I got ready for a job interview at an upscale seafood restaurant in Manhattan. I was nervous, but hot and heeled.  I needed this job.  I needed to stay out of my crazy parents’ house and begin my life again in the city – this time in Brooklyn. Upon heading out, I noticed a plethora of little tots running about on the sidewalk. They all seemed so happy and free. I walked toward the Grand Army Plaza subway station and suddenly yelped in pain. My foot had just been run over by a renegade five-year-old on his scooter.  A group of kids ran after him. The mother, who was wielding a stroller as if the word “stroller” means carte-blanche-to-do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-other-people-on-the-street, did not apologize.  In this moment I was a 2^nd class singleton, stuck in a place where entitled, renegade kids run the streets. Why hadn't anyone told me this place was “Lord of the Flies" on scooters? 

THE PARK:

After getting home from my interview, I decided to take Vito to Prospect Park for a little serenity and centering.  Wow, I thought. What a park!  I was relieved upon seeing that there was an aspect of heaven waiting for me. After a few minutes of playing a gleeful game of catch with Vito, a Labradoodle decided to test his mojo by nipping at him. Before I knew it, the pooch fight quickly escalated and drew a bigger crowd than an Oscar De La Joya event. And of course, because Vito is a Pit Bull, the expensive labradoodle's mommy freaked out.

“Get him off of my dog!" she screamed.  "What are you doing here with a dog like that? Oh my God, is Bella bleeding?”

OK, first of all, why does everyone name their dog Bella? And second, Bella started the fight. Thirdly, Bella is not bleeding. Still, I shuffled off, my head in shame, mud all over my clothes, knowing that from now on Vito and I will only be able to return to Prospect Park incognito. (currently, we both wear shades to conceal our real identities).

THE ROOMMATE:

So this guy Grant I'm staying with can best be described as a shorter, older version of Andy Kaufman.  He runs some kind of trucking operation, which I imagine is a taxi that he drives under the guidance of Danny DeVito.  His apartment is filled with plants that would rival the density of a Costa Rican rainforest. Upon moving in, he tried to hit on me a few times. This was not cool, because A) I wasn't interested, and B) it’s not what I consider good hospitality during these challenging times. In an act of passive aggressive retaliation, I've encourage Vito to relieve himself on the houseplants.  Fuck with me and I’ll fuck with you, my grandmother used to always say.

OVERALL:

Park Slope hasn’t entirely sucked.  I have found something wonderful:  the cafés.  How awesome that in a one block radius of 7^th Avenue and Berkeley, I can immerse myself in the Parisian atmosphere of Café Regular, the candlelit peace of Noella, or the less-than-happy service but gorgeous cappuccino brightness of Cousin John’s?  Cafes are the one place where I, the writer, can feel like I am at home, but not lonely.  I am sitting in one as I write this.  It’s interesting to note that I am immersed in a sea of other unemployed writers with their laptops.

I’m sorry -- I’m going to have to cut this blog entry short. My mother has just called and wants to know if I want this futon my father picked up on the street.  My father has just yelled in the background, “No way!  I’m selling it on Ebay! We’ve done enough for her.”  I'd like to escape outside to finish this cell phone conversation, but Mommy and Me Yoga just got out and the stroller mafia is blocking my way. 

I hope my second week in Park Slope is better.

[You can read more from Myra at My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours]