The winters were cold in New York City.
The Summers always hot and filithy that you would sweat gasoline.
In January, 1979, my father and I arrived in New York; after a week looking we ended up with an apartment in Flushing, Queens. My mother helped find it for him as she had made some calls three days ahead before we came down. She was not moved by our appearance now that we would be close by. Her looks always being the kind that just seemed indifferent and could care less if you knew.

I was getting used to my crutches then and had spent the next several months living with a cast. In April of that year I had turned seven. The territory was pretty new, and my surroundings were very different than what I was used to. The schools would be different too and I didn't know anybody; that made me apprehensive but excited at the same time. I figured my father would lighten up for a change, but it never
came.

Northern Boulevard was the main road to just about anywhere you wanted to go. Groceries and supermarkets, newspaper stands and delicatessens were stacked on top of each other. Across the way, the Amber Lantern, a car dealership, new cars showcased by glass, marble floors on the inside. Behind Northern boulevard there was our building and surrounding it mostly were just residential houses with plenty of flora, tall trees, and lots of green lawns, around the corner was another small grocery delicatessen; which just seemed to be living on it's own with no business whatsoever to compete with it; there was a small park which was referred by the locals as "Chestnut Park"; like' its namesake chestnuts did grow on the trees there during the Summer time -where they would fall down covering the green benches or the cracked pavements leading into the gutter.

The city had an urban smell you just could not get rid of. Everything about it smelled different. The sensationalism of the surroundings, bold, wild, and rugged vascillating between modernity and old world truisms. The great melting pot they called it; a name that would resonate between every youth and adult that lived here in the urban provence.
We had no furniture when we moved. My father figured it was easier to get rid of everything, than spend a whole lotta money to move stuff from one place to another; so basically, we only brought what was necessary and nothing more; and if it didn't fit in the trunk or the back seat of the car, then it was history. I had my comic books, a suitcase filled with clothes and bathroom essentials and my father brought his records along,the TV, a large toolbox, and whatever else that would fit in the trunk. For my father, things were pretty simple. And like his father before him, they just had to be. No questions asked.

I was getting used to moving by then. My life was filled with it; living with my uncle at first - the place where my father grew up, then living with my aunt for awhile, until we moved into our own house - where the divorce between my mother and father started happening, and we moved again - just my father and I, the next time around, and here in the "Great Big Apple", this was the current assignment. A new frame of existence to be expounded and viewed, and experienced with the greatest of ease. A sense for the greatest chaos that could be lived on without overwhelming.
It was literally a mess already.

The apartment building was six stories high. It sat on the corner of thirty-fourth street and Murray. There was a backyard to the building; but it was nothing more than a few broken benches, with bushes and a tree on the inside of the entrance which was fenced in. Stairs lead to the upper deck, which was a huge concrete court, also gated in by chainlink fences and bushes that were residing on other other peoples
properties, affronted by other well kept backyards. The building formed like an 'L' shape; the fire escapes zig-zagged their way to the roof against the burnt-sienna and elongated windows peering out into the greater landscapes. The laundry room was in the basement; passed the tin trash cans that was heavily stifled by plastic, last weeks newspapers from the "Daily Post", odd-ends of things no longer needed such as old clothing or luggage bags or paintings, and the obvious day-to-day trash that stank up the place. The washing machines hissed, and the dryers rumbled loudly in their spin cycles. The air was scented with old mildew disinfectant and linen. The front entrace into the building was paned with glass; the intercom glared back at you under halogen lamps; numbers and names covered the surface annotating the occupying resident; but most times the labels just fell off and leaving the person to guess who they should be asking for as they rang the buzzard.

The main hallway was empty, albeit the corner, which might of been something that fish might of actually swam in at one time, before they died out. The hall veered out into a fork; the left side, was one long hallway leading to a door, that was entrance to the garage, the right side ran out to the backyard court and the laundry area. The Superintentdant lived closest to the elevator toward the garage entrance.

My father met the superintendant first. His name was Bob. He was large and overweight. His hands were dirty. His hair was in dissarray. He used to speak real fast sometimes. He was Puerto Rican and had been at the job for a quite a number of years before we moved in. He was easy enough to get to know and seemed overly friendly; a very sociable person that enjoyed what he did. As he showed us around, he chatted up a storm with my father. He talked about the people in the neighborhood and in the building; how many kids he had; about his wife. As he spoke, it was the first time I noticed he was pushing a shopping cart filled with paint cans, turpentine, cleaners, a bunch of old rags, some tools and some other things that were hard to describe.

We took the elevator up to the 5th floor. As we got off the elevator, we headed to the right down a long hallway. Like the building outside, even each floor was shaped like an 'L'. The walls were painted in some nasty lemon lime color. Following behind my father and Bob, you could hear the echoes reverberating. There were grey doors with small number on them. We stopped at 5K. Bob fidgeted with his keys. He had reminded me of a corrections officer opening up a jail cell for a bunch of new inmates - we were it.
As we entered, I felt something stir in me. The apartment looked like one big huge box. The same elongated windows that I saw outside, I was looking at them from the inside. They spied into the backyard. The kitchen was to the right and looked ratty with it's cheap and unmaintained linoleum floor. To me, it looked like a death trap. The apartment was a one bedroom; the small hallway to the left lead to the bathroom, directly adjacent to the bedroom. The floors were hard wood; a radiator covered in paint sat in the corner of the living room. Bob asked where our furniture was, but my father told him we had none, but would be buying
some when we could.
"What's your name kid, I didn't catch ya name." The superintendant sounded like he was barking as he asked me.
"Bryan."
"Your father is a post man, hah? Good job, yeah real good job. Make lots and lots of money there I bet! Darn good job, I tell ya."
I didn't really say much. I was waiting for the big bag of wind to blow over.
"I have a kid your age, yeah, his name is Erik. Yeah, he would like that, ya know, play around and all. My other two kids are much older though."
He quickly changed the subject and kept going, talking like a bat out of the belfrey.
"This is a good apartment. In good shape. Had no problems with it at all. Good pipes in the bathroom. Get a nice view here."
My father nodded his head just listening as he surmised the bathroom and the other areas. Bob continued to talk even if no one was really paying attention to him. It was funny and strange that you would meet people like that which was totally opposite of my father who hardly did any or little ranting at all.
He hid his anger to strangers who did not know him well enough. He did not want to be labeled.
Bob asked my father if he liked the apartment. My father did not make any disagreements about the place, even though, deep down inside he was hating the fact of living in a dump. However, he really did not have much of a choice.
Beggars couldn't be choosers.
After my father signed all the paperwork and stuff, we started moving in our things about two days later. Bob sold my father a table and a TV stand for about fifty bucks. During that same day, we had a small table, two crappy chairs and a rolling cart for a TV stand. My father went out and bought a mattress from somewhere and that is what we slept on during our first night.
The next day my father had gone to the grocery around the corner - a King Kullen. We stacked up on the essentials until he was able to manage more.
By the time the week was over my father had dug through the garbage downstairs and had salvaged some foam padding for cushions to use as the living room couch. Since I was pretty helpless with the cast being on, all I could really do then, was just sit around and watch.
So here I was; sitting on foam cushions from the garbage watching the tube on a mini-bar rolling cart on a Saturday morning, amused by the sights and sounds of the Bugs Bunny and Road Runner show, Heckle and Jekyl, Mighty Mouse and Scooby Doo as my morning entertainment.
What else could a kid ask for ?
I laughed at my weekly friends as they continued to torment each other or in the end, save the world from embarrasement and fatality.
You had to love it.
The irony in us all.