Kew Gardens X — A Winter Jaunt
On a clean, cold Sunday afternoon, I bundled up to take a walk around the neighborhood, continuing my journey to Maple Grove Cemetery. My first stop was the neighborhood 7-Eleven.
I walked down the stairs and outside the apartment, turned left, and started down the block. I saw what seemed to be Captain America’s shield tossed onto a pile of black trash bags. (It turned out to be a round, patriotically upholstered footrest, but for a second…).
I quickly overtook a plodding, plump middle-aged woman wearing sky-blue New Balance running shoes, turned left on Brevoort, and walked until reaching the fenced Long Island Rail Road tracks, where the haunting sounds of air horns moan at night. They always transport me to our frontier era of brash, bold beginnings. Manifest destinies for some, sorrow and woe for others.
Turning left on Cuthbert I walk towards Lefferts. I pass a brick pre-war, the curb filled will a long line of garbage bags. Four people — canners, I suspect — were going through the bags in a very orderly manner, neatly tying them up once the plastic bottles were taken out. Some canners are homeless, but others, I read somewhere, are taxi drivers making extra money now that Uber and Lyft have flooded city streets, slashing their income. (True confession: I resisted using Uber for a couple of years but the NYC Taxi Curb app was such a spectacularly poor experience that I caved).
On Lefferts I spot the 7-Eleven. Its gabled roof and tan stucco façade blended in with the classic Victorian-era architectural style of that stretch of the boulevard, melding with the original design elements of Kew Gardens’ beginnings.
I walk inside and look around. Jesus H. Christ, it’s a freakin’ holy temple to American food addictions. And other addictions. Entering you see a plexiglass tower containing thirty different Lotto scratch-off games. Count’em man, thirty.
And stuck on top of this gambler’s ziggurat, an American flag. See what I mean?
I walk around. Everything is lowest common denominator. Cheap and crappy. A pantheon to high-fructose corn syrup and hydrolyzed vegetable oil.
Every aisle seems a variation of the same junk food theme:
Hot fried food and salty chips
Sugary drinks
Loads of “healthy” energy bars of questionable health value
Donuts (I do eat the glazed and chocolate-covered ones sometimes, yum).
Various oversized cans of “beah” (As the stadium beer hawkers at CitiField say: “Hey, getcha beah heah!”)
I went to the checkout area and bought some TicTacs. The customer after me, carrying a six-pack, asked for a bag after paying. The cashier was spoiling for a fight:
“You want a bag, you pay for it. Not for free. Fifty cents!”
The young man, a bit bewildered at the hostile tone, muttered under his breath, “Fine, I’ll pay.” He glanced at me, widened his eyes, and shook his head, as if to say, can you believe this dude. I glanced down, pursed my lips together, shook my head in agreement, and went outside.
I continued walking down, past the fish store, the Chinese takeout (there’s three of them just walking down from Metro to this section of Lefferts, wow), passed the Southeast Asian-owned pharmacy, and then turned right onto a short stairway that get treacherous with ice in the winter. I walked past the back outdoor dining area of Austin’s towards the LIRR station waiting area. Next to the station there’s a cute coffee house called Roast and Co. that we frequent, managed by this Moroccan pair that are super friendly and make great Chicken Caesar salads and avocado toast with eggs.
I walked in to say hello, and ordered a coffee. I stared at the chocolate chip cookies, and realized something:
“Hey you know I just baked cookies?” I grinned at them.
“Oh yeah? If they’re good, we might be able to sell them,” he said, smiling, humoring me a bit probably.
I laugh. “Well, don’t know about that, but I’ll bake some just for you and your colleague, OK? But they’re a variation, with M&Ms and peanut butter chips.”
“Sounds good!” He said as he gave me my drink. I paid using my smartphone — I’m hardly carrying around my wallet anymore — and sat down to drink.
Afterwards, I continue on my Kew Gardens walking odyssey, ambled down Austin Street, turned left on 82nd Avenue, and crossed the bridge over the tracks. There was some artwork with just a bit of graffiti:
And on the opposite side, more art, a bit smudged with paint used to cover up more graffiti.
After I crossed, I meandered through Forest Hills-like urban-suburban streets chock full of million-dollar homes — some handsome, some ridiculous-looking wannabe mansions — crossed through Sobelsohn Playground to Metropolitan, and go back home. On the way, I see a cat.
