Between Bushwick and a barrier, pt. 1

I actually gave up a Packer-watching Sunday afternoon in the Fall. And I almost paid for it with my life.

Not really. But CLo and I did spend an afternoon with possible satanists.. Maybe I should explain a little. I agreed to attend a Sunday bbq with some of CLo’s friends in Bushwick, a far-cry from our upstate Manhattan digs. I knew I’d be forgoing a Packers game; one of just 16 guaranteed opportunities; a seasonal Sabbath-like ritual on Sunday afternoon, but I had quite the hankering for backyard bbq going on for quite some time.

In the end, I was fortuned the “privilege” of watching the first half of the game, a result of the bad weather-influenced delay in start time. I would have been better off not watching in light of the putrid performance my team offered. I’d be more an optimist had I been granted such ignorance.

Enter Bushwick, an apparent East Coast reincarnation of the Oakland Raiders’ “Black Hole.” We were greeted by our friends at the door, who wearing what I would call normal clothes. CLo is wearing normal clothes. As we are well aware by now, it’s Sunday in Fall; I’m wearing an ‘85 Packers jersey on brown, rolled up chinos so my new Sunday socks are visible. The next two people we meet couldn’t look more different. The two men sported wiry beards down that covered the entirety of their long, slim necks. Both had black tees, black pants, and black boots.

I suppose whenever I’ve thought of Bushwick before - which is in Brooklyn - I thought it was a slightly rougher extension of Willamsburg but still with a large number of hipsters. I didn’t think they would actually be bushwhacked! Straight from the bush. Over the course of the next couple of hours, I met at least ten more men and women, all of which shared one thing in common…they all took fashion cues straight out of The Richard Lewis Playbook. Beyond the all-black get-ups, the girls had tattoos aplenty; everyone wore boots; everyone nearly chain-smoked through the entire occasion. And not that good shit.

No one was interested in getting to know the colorful “others,” and truth-be-told I wasn’t necessarily dying for anyone to strike up a convo with me. For CLo and myself, it was quite a sight to be seen.

Enveloped in the mist, the 100% humidity of the backyard and drinking a pale ale I thought to myself; at least I still have the bbq coming. The chicken looked well-seasoned and the kabobs figured to be delicious. As it turns out, the chicken wore black too. I saw the chicken on the grill as it was cooked perfect and ready to come off, only for one of the black sheep to cover it once again. Fate sealed.

Once the chicken came off well-charred, or cooked to perfect depending on who you ask, I knew it was a wrap on the kabobs too. The beef chunks were essentially beef jerkey - impossible to chew. The peppers were salvaged. It wasn’t a total loss.

Finally, the time came to dip out. I thanked the two beards for welcoming us before shuffling through the bedroom, past pentagram and goth stickers, into the quaint-modern living room and out the front door.

Part II coming soon…

Alex GoldmanComment