>Red Hook in Post Postmodernism


Yestaday I went ta Red Hook. Had ta go, it was a byootiful day, long summer shadowz, stray clouds in da sky, had ta go. I wuz bikin up Bedfud and I askt dis guy ow do I get ta Red Hook. “Red Hook,” he zayz, “you gotta long way to go. Take Washington all the way to the en’.” 

But i’ was fine. I took da scenic route ‘long Washington all da way. Left on Union, an askt some more people long da way an fin’lly, I got deya. Oll da streets had dese ol’ Dutch names, Van Brunt, Dikeman, Coffey. I stopped at dis motacycle joint, wannid ta know if I waz goin da rite way. I askt dis guy, real Brooklyn you can tell. Short curly hair, slickt back, dese cleah blue eyes, sharp nose, chin, good lookin’ guy. Tells me I’m goin da right way.

I go down to da Faihway. Da streetz is cobblestone, is quiet, deyaz nobody deya. Dismount da bike, get off and take it in: gorjis day, Statue a Lihbedy’s real close, Staten Islan, dese ol unuse street cahz an da broken lectric linez. Real remnants. Da factareez ah oll old, shuttahed, antebellum, with da classic Brooklyn design, da Amstahdam stah between windows. I’z ungry, so I asked some people wheya tak get some Mexican food. These people, deyr in touch wit da Brooklyn spirit.

Ate some chicharroneyz, and biked home troo da ubiquitwitus brownstones, toll sycamohz, real Brooklyn. Biked fast ta see ma baby, but not too fast – didn wanna get da gollywobblez.

Daniel Adler wuz bohn in Bay Ridge, back in Brooklyn wit da rest uvem.

By Daniel Ryan Adler

Daniel Adler writes fiction and nonfiction and is finishing his MFA at University of South Carolina.

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