The largest Public Housing Project in Brooklyn. I moved here in 2001. I was 46.  Oh, I’m a white guy.

My first Saturday night there, I got home around midnight. There’s a bunch of young guys in front of the building. Alright, I cant show any fear. And I don’t. I just take a deep breath…..

And slip around to the back door.

I open it and hear shouting and laughter from many voices. And an alarm is ringing.

I’m goin in, come what may. I walk up the 2 steps, turn the corner and see about 10 young guys and a few women. It gets quiet real quick, making the alarm sound louder. I begin casually weaving through the crowd, nodding my head slightly but avoiding eye contact. The talking begins to get louder. I’m gonna pull this off; if I can just get on the elevator before I have a heart attack.

But both elevators are on the 14th floor.. Alright. The alarm is the elevators not working. So I casually open the door to the stairwell, step in and…..

Explode up the steps. Taking 3 at a time. Eatin’ em up like Edwin Moses used to take the hurdles. As if I’m running from tigers. I’m flyin’….I passed my floor.

I feel stupid walking back down a flight. I go in and lie on the floor. Silence.

Well living here is gonna put me in great shape. Dozing off I realize why they resumed talking. To calm me down.

I ask some of the black guys at work for advice on living in the projects.

‘Don’t kick the dice” was my favorite.

My first week there I was on a crowded elevator and a black guy asked

“Do you live here?”

“Yeah. I just moved in.”

“Why you wanna live around all these black folks?” he said with a smile and a laugh.

“Well, I’m hoping I can learn how to dance.”

The elevator exploded with laughter.. A word aptly spoken is like a kiss on the lips. That’s in the Bible, I think.

I’m getting discriminated against in the delis.

They won’t sell me ‘loose cigarettes’.

I’m getting harassed on the street.

By the cops. They think I’m buying drugs, and they stop and frisk me a lot.

But I love getting frisked. My job drug tests so I don’t smoke. That’s ok though. I can do all the LSD I want.

So yeah, after a frisk, my walk has some serious swag. I’m walkin like Denzel after a hit a coke in that movie Flight.

Hanging out with black folks is rubbing off on me. Sometimes when I get around white people….I wanna slap em.

Just joking.

I never see drug dealing. There are more chihuahuas than pitbulls.

One difference. In Manhattan when I came home late I always had my key ready. I quit doin that punk move here. Why?

Because the lobby door is always open. It’s much more convenient.

The deli lines can get a little, ah, wavy. Funky. Outta line and off the wall.The trick for any line is don’t panic. Relax and go with the flow. And when the time feels right?

Step to your business.

And if somebody gets waited on before you, who came in later? It’s ok. Enjoy your calmness. And take comfort in knowing that sooner or later, somebody else will get that motherfucker.

Whoops. Sometimes you just need a good cuss word.

Now some people see the common areas trashed and jump to conclusions. I know I did.

One early morning leaving for work I see spilled coffee on the elevator floor. Returning 10 hours later, it’s no longer wet. It’s damp and sticky and joined by an empty bag of Dipsy Doodles.

The next morning at 5am the elevator door opens and I see a sad sight. A dropped ice cream cone beside the Dipsy Doodles bag.

Maybe I should clean the elevator? Maybe I should clean my bathroom?

I ain’t cleanin’ nuthin.

That evening I see that someone has stepped on the ice cream cone.

The next morning, the scene is beginning to have a certain beauty to it. Like modern art.

That evening the elevator was spotless. Damn. I was wondering what it was gonna look like.

So the elevator is cleaned every 3 days or so.

To Be Continued!

A Star-Revue Contributor