“Which one’s Contreras?” he asked.
I didn’t think it was a good idea to point, so, like a silent movie stooge, I directed Jack with my eyes. The Contreras kid was wearing the same uniform as when I’d last seen him—button-down and khakis—only this time he’d topped it off with an oversized anti-farm shirt, and he was wielding a clipboard. Watching him collect signatures, radiating a proud tenacity, I presumed this was a dry run for public life. The elder Contreras had lit the fire under Jack, but he was staying away so the son could have his moment and maybe lay the foundation of a political dynasty.
Jack didn’t hesitate; gnarled hand stretched out in front of him, he cut a path straight to the Contreras kid, towing me in his wake. They shook as Jack introduced himself and thanked him for getting the word out. Then he pivoted neatly to the side so there was nothing between the kid and me.
“You two know each other, I think.”
Contreras acknowledged me with an imperious nod. I nodded back. Jack laid a hand on each of our shoulders like we were captains of opposing teams and he was the referee, laying the ground rules before the big game.
“Trust me, as long as everyone is calm and respectful, this is going to be a constructive conversation.”
By this point, the rest of the assembled had gathered around us in a loose circle. With the deliberate nonchalance that was his habit (or more likely his preferred ploy), Jack removed a cigarette and a Bic from his pocket protector, lit up, and took a deep, serene drag while we all waited.
“All right.” He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear without making any apparent effort to project his voice. “What’s the problem?”
Silence. I think everyone was expecting a bit more ceremony, some opening remarks— “On behalf of the Parks Department, I’d like to take the opportunity to recognize the esteemed representatives of Community Board 3…”—the usual. Eventually, after Jack made a show of checking his watch, it sunk in that the floor was open and the clock ticking. Contreras launched into a tirade about the illegal occupation of the handball court—he actually used those words—but Jack cut him off before he could build up a head of steam.
“Illegal? Illegal how?”
Contreras sputtered something about permits. Jack waved his hand for silence and, to my amazement, got it.
“Let me explain this so there’s no misunderstanding. All of this”—he swept his arm to take in the playground, the parking lot, the handball court—“is owned by the Parks Department. Frankly, we haven’t done enough over the years to put this land to good use. That’s on us.”
Jack held his hand to his chest, mea culpa. “Now, based on our assessment, we determined that the handball court was underutilized, and so we issued a community garden license to this gentleman’s organization. That gives them the legal right to be here.”
Contreras couldn’t contain himself any longer. “What about our rights? Why didn’t anyone come to us?”
“We asked Raise the Roof to make a presentation to your community board,” Jack said. “That’s the process. And my understanding is there were no objections to the project.”
The chairman of the community board cleared his throat. “We said at the time we weren’t fully briefed on the situation in this particular neighborhood. Consequently, we recommended the gentlemen engage Community Board 1 before proceeding with the project.”
Suzette stepped forward. “No disrespect, but we represent Bed-Stuy. We don’t know the Broadway Triangle from Times Square. It could be a damn rhombus for all we care. We were promised services in our community.”
Jack nodded as if this all made perfect sense and bore no further explanation. “Sounds like the process broke down,” he said. “That can happen when a neighborhood falls on the dividing line between districts. But we’re all here now, so let’s figure this out. What I need to know is this: was the handball court being used regularly before the garden came in?”
The more vocal protesters confirmed that it was.
“What’s wrong with the court up the street?”
Like a Shakespearean chorus, the three ballers stepped up and recited the history of enmity between Tompkins Houses and Borinquen Plaza. Jack stared at the ground, hands folded behind his back, as if he were transcribing every word in some psychic ledger. When they were finished, he kept his head down, giving us all the impression he was reviewing the evidence assembled there.
Just when I thought he might have dozed off, Jack looked up. “All right, so our assessment that the court was underutilized was wrong. On behalf of the Parks Department, I take full responsibility for that.”
This acknowledgement of accountability had a funny effect on the protesters: They seemed subdued, maybe even a little disappointed. It was up to Contreras to rekindle the fire.
“That’s just talk,” he said. “We want to see action.”
Jack dipped his shoulders as if he were literally bowing to the pressure. “If the decision here tonight is that the handball court should be restored, we’ll move the garden out first thing Monday morning.”
A whoop went up from the crowd. Contreras looked dumbfounded — I could tell he’d never anticipated scoring such an easy victory. Now he must have been wondering whether this was as desirable an outcome as the press-worthy civil disobedience he’d envisioned. I was pretty stunned myself. Jack had warned me we might be out, but I’d expected at least a token effort to win over the naysayers. Now it was up to me.
“Wait a second,” I said. “What if we each got half the court? Handball on one side of the wall, farm on the other?”
“I don’t think safety regulations would allow it,” Jack said.
So much for that. If there was a more persuasive plea to be made on our behalf, it wasn’t coming to me.
“I’m sorry,” Sasha said, elbowing her way to the center of the circle. “This is bullshit.”
I heard a high-pitched sound coming from the back of someone’s throat, but I couldn’t tell if it signaled indignation or mockery.
“Sure, they were using that handball court,” she said to Jack. “They were using it to park their cars and blast music all night. Before Will and Elliot came, the ground was covered with broken bottles and used condoms.”
From the outer edge of the circle, Dante said, “Don’t forget the blunts, yo.”
Felix punched him hard in the arm.
“You all should be ashamed,” Sasha said. “We’re trying to make this a better place for kids, and you’re ruining it.”
What she hoped to accomplish with that kind of talk I couldn’t say, and I bet she couldn’t either. What she got was Suzette, shoulders thrown back, raring for battle.
“Who’s ‘you all’? You think people of color don’t care about kids?”
“Who said anything about people of color?”
“Look around you, child. This is a community of color.”
“We live here, too,” Sasha said, glancing behind her, perhaps to make sure her friends were still there.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Suzette said.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Tell her.”
Contreras looked anxious to resume the leadership role. “It’s gentrification, plain and simple. You come in here, and right away you try to take over, turn our handball court into your backyard.”
Sasha groaned. “Give me a break.”
Now probably wasn’t a good time to mention the garden access we’d promised her landlord in exchange for water.
She spotted Henry and pounced on him with her eyes. “Sir, I’ve seen you working in the garden. I’d like to hear what you have to say.”
Henry rubbed his jaw as if he needed to warm it up before he could speak. “I don’t care if it’s a garden, a handball court, or a damn Ferris wheel. A child was beat up the other day. We’ve got rats everywhere because no one picks up the trash. And y’all talking about gentrification? Please.”
He pointed at Jack. “This is the first time I can recall
someone from the city coming out here. You’re from the Parks Department, right? Okay, but where’s Sanitation? Where’s the NYPD?”
“We already got all these white people up in our shit,” Felix said. “Now you want the cops, too? Man, you’re crazy.”
“Come over here and find out how crazy I am.”
Jack flung out his hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, I think we’ve all said our piece. Let me see if I can sum up the main points.”
He left his hand hanging in the air, index finger extended. “Number one: a majority of you want the handball court to be restored.”
I could see that Sasha wanted to object, but there was no denying we were outnumbered. Jack raised a second finger. “Number two: there have been some incidents of disorderly conduct and vandalism associated with the handball court.”
There were a few murmurs of dissent, but Jack ignored them, hoisting a third finger. “Number three: the city has been negligent in providing services to this area. How’d I do?”
No one saw anything to gain by answering one way or the other, so Jack pressed on. “If you bear with me, I think we can address all these problems tonight. First, I want to be clear that this is about more than just the handball court. We view this entire area—the court, the playground, the parking lot—as one piece of property, and our goal is to revitalize all of it.”
A different kind of murmur fluttered through the crowd—not approving but receptive.
“A lot of things are going to have to happen in order to make that goal a reality, but we see tonight as the start of the process. You say no one’s been out here, no one’s listened to your concerns. Well, I’m here now, so tell me: if you could have any type of public amenity in this space, what would you want to see?”
For the third time, Jack had caught the protesters off guard. Naturally, the least inhibited of the group was the first to get into the spirit.
Dante raised his hand and spoke at the same time. “A football field!”
“A football field,” Jack said evenly.
“We already play in the parking lot, but it’s kind of hard with all the cars in the way.”
“A regulation football field is 57,000 square feet, so we’re short on space. How many of you play basketball?”
Naturally, the three ballers raised their hands, along with about a half dozen others.
“We can do a basketball court,” Jack said. “What else?”
“A waterslide!” The suggestion came from a teenager in tear-away track pants and a bikini top. If Jack were to conjure a waterslide from thin air, she’d be ready.
“A water amenity is a major project, but it’s possible,” he said. “We’ve done some really creative shower sprays. Will, help me out. There’s a pipe under the playground, correct?”
I nodded in wonder. Was this really how it worked? If they said they wanted a rec center, would he offer them a few picnic tables?
Suzette was next in line. “We’re all about creating positive opportunities for the young people,” she began. The chairman cast his eyes heavenward.
“What we need is a performance space with a stage and sound equipment so we can host poetry nights, a griot circle, give the young people a chance to express themselves and explore their heritage.”
Lo and behold, the Triangle was in Bed-Stuy after all.
If Jack was on my wavelength, he didn’t show it. “No reason you couldn’t host performances here.”
“What we need most is a dog run.” It was the woman Kat had talked to back in the spring. Her black lab wasn’t with her, but she was wearing the same army surplus coat.
“The damn dogs already have the run of this place,” Henry said. “Just check your shoes.”
“They have to go somewhere! If we had a dog run, no one would have to worry about their shoes.”
“What about a skate park?” Kat said. “Daryl, the boy who was assaulted—he and his friends were learning to skate.”
Jack hung his head, observing a personal moment of silence for Daryl. When he looked up again, it was back to business. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got so far. Basketball courts, some type of water amenity, a performance space, a dog run, a skate park. Anything else?”
The crowd was quiet. The question may well have sounded sarcastic to them. I myself expected Jack to deliver a lecture about budget constraints, staff resources, logistics, but that wasn’t where he was going.
“Before we move ahead, we have to answer a couple of questions. First, is the handball court going to be part of the future of this site?”
Contreras waved his finger. Finally, something he could object to. “Uh-uh. You can’t just promise us a bunch of stuff and take away what we already have. No handball court, no deal.”
There were some low grumbles and sidelong looks. It seemed to me the protesters were hoping someone would break rank and say Contreras didn’t speak for them; they’d gladly trade the handball court for basketball and a waterslide. Jack, on the other hand, accepted the kid’s authority without question, raising his arms in surrender.
“Okay, the handball court stays. Had to ask. Next question: do you think we can find a little room for this man’s garden, so the children who have plants growing here won’t be disappointed? Maybe carve a little space out of the parking lot?”
“Won’t it get in the way of the basketball court?” Felix asked.
Jack shut one eye and surveyed the lot. “We’ll have to scale down a bit, take advantage of vertical space, maybe build more trellises. But there should be room for everybody. Will, would you be amenable to that?”
Suddenly, I was the center of attention. Jack was managing the situation so briskly, it didn’t seem real. Were we spit-balling or negotiating?
It felt like a minute before I found my voice. “We get our water from the building next door. I don’t know if we can stretch a hose all the way out to the parking lot.”
Jack dismissed my concern with a flick of the wrist. “Not a problem. Once we tap that pipe under the playground, that’ll be your water source.”
I wanted to ask when exactly we could expect that to happen, but that would’ve made me the turd on the waterslide. Instead I said, “We don’t have enough money to rebuild again.”
“This was a Parks mistake, so Parks will incur the cost. Any plants that don’t survive the move, we’ll replace.”
I took a breath. I thought about saying I needed to consult my partner, but what was there to consult about, really? “We can work with whatever space is available. If the community’s willing to share.”
Jack faced Contreras.
“What do you say? Remember, we wouldn’t even be here talking about revitalization if they hadn’t taken the first step.”
How’s that for rhetorical jujitsu? In just a few words, Jack had recast us as neighborhood saviors. Judging by his expression, Contreras seemed reluctant to give ground, but he found himself with no credible reason to refuse.
“We get what we’re promised, they can stay.” He tried to put some weight behind the words, so everyone would appreciate that he was driving a hard bargain.
Jack wasn’t done with him yet. “In that case, we’re going to need your help keeping the garden and the handball court secure. Can I get your word on that? Because I can tell you Parks isn’t going to invest heavily in an area that’s a target for vandalism and loitering.”
Contreras did something with his neck that could fairly be described as squirming. I could tell he didn’t want to take responsibility for any criminal mischief, but now his authority depended on it.
“We’ll get the word out,” he muttered.
Jack flashed a set of faded dentures. “Isn’t that terrific? We’re making real progress here. I’d love it if you two could shake hands and seal the deal.”
It’s weird feeling like a marionette, at the end of another man’s string. I figured Contreras must have been thinking along the same lines, but when he took my hand, the gesture wasn’t perfuncto
ry. He squeezed it hard and, looking me straight in the eye, said, “Nothing personal, man,” with genuine emotion. Must have been contagious. An intense relief was spreading from my chest to the top of my head.
“Now, let’s talk next steps,” Jack said. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. The first order of business is to form a steering committee that can oversee the planning and act as a liaison between the city and the community. The two of you will be on it, of course, plus a representative from Community Board 3, and Community Board 1, if they choose to participate.”
I opened my mouth, but Jack wasn’t finished. “It may take a year or two to put together a comprehensive plan, make sure all the relevant stakeholders get a chance to give their input, and steer it through the approval process. But I don’t want anyone to worry. We’re not going to wait to make changes. Like I said earlier, we’ll be here Monday morning to move the garden and restore the handball court. We’re also going to get the ball rolling on reclaiming the parking lot as public space, so when we do have an approved redevelopment plan, we can get started immediately.”
I wasn’t sure what reclaiming the parking lot involved—a flag maybe?—but the crowd liked the sound of it. Everyone was nodding furiously, trying to keep up with Jack’s administrative zeal.
“And as a show of good faith—because I know how much this community’s been through—we’re going to do some beautification, too.” He strode over to the fence surrounding the playground, spent a minute contemplating the sickly pines planted in the swale, then strode back.
In the Weeds Page 19