In the Weeds

by Daniel Browne

  “We put them in the fertilizer.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Pastor Leo’s going to ask for an increase on my budget line. We’re just getting started with the education initiative.”

  “I could tell he was buttering me up for something. He kept talking about ‘the next evolution in project-based learning.’”

  “That’s why I love Brooklyn. Even the pastors believe in evolution.”

  “I hope you realize what you’re doing to me. It’s going take ten meetings to get this approved.”

  “I just hate to think of you being bored. Hey, speaking of meetings, I was out at Peter’s Place yesterday. Or should I say, TBD Place.”

  Elliot had taken my place on the steering committee. Even after he’d handed over the farm to Begin to Win, he stuck around, figuring it couldn’t hurt to stay involved in a major neighborhood revitalization project. You never knew when the good folks of Community Board 3 might be in the market for a consultant. They still met regularly to tweak the plans (if the skate park included a full funbox, would there be room for the food truck court?), but according to Elliot, they were no closer to construction. Turns out, Jack wasn’t kidding when he said he was putting in for retirement. His replacement was Winston, who seemed unmotivated by the distinctly bourgeois turn events in the Triangle had taken. On the rare occasion he showed up for a meeting, he just spaced out, biding his time till the revolution came. So, for the foreseeable future, the revitalization would consist of a few fruit trees and a parking lot blocked by boulders.

  “Junior Contreras asks about you all the time,” Elliot told me. “You really made an impression on him.”

  “I wrote ‘keep in touch’ in his yearbook, but, you know, he never did.”

  “Come on, be honest. You miss it, don’t you?”

  I did, of course, parts of it anyway—hanging out with Elliot most of all.

  “You coming to Pete’s birthday party?” I asked.

  “We’re going to try. I’ve got to deal with some league business in the morning.”

  Elliot had gotten one last favor out of Jack before he retired: a permit for use of the soccer field in the new waterfront sports complex alongside the Brooklyn navy yard. The permit was expensive, but the demand for space and playing time among the city’s countless leagues made it a shrewd investment. The virgin field with its grand view of Manhattan quickly became the most coveted in the city. Elliot formed his own league and sold memberships for a tidy profit. I think all that time with John must have rubbed off on him. During the season, he devoted as much energy to managing the soccer schedule as he did to his consulting business.

  “I just hope all the kids from daycare show,” I said. “We’ve still got pureed bell pepper to unload.”

  The plan was to celebrate Pete’s first birthday in the park by the Old Stone House, where I’d become a member of the board. Volunteering was Tricia’s suggestion. That way, even as I re-acclimated to office work, I’d have a community project complete with garden to keep me from feeling like I’d given up too much—or just given up. Compared to Raise the Roof, it was a pretty staid gig, but between new fatherhood and the long hours at Prometheus, it was about all I had the energy for.

  It’s hard to explain why we decided to name our child after the place I’d felt such a desperate need to escape, but let me try. My one regret about the way it all went down is that the kid won’t be able to say his dad’s a farmer after all. Instead, if all goes well, he’ll be saying, “My dad’s a program officer for a foundation.” Honorable enough, but not exactly the stuff dreams are made of. So I guess I wanted my son’s name to be a small reminder of a time in his dad’s life when he dreamt a little bigger, when he took a risk, tried to reinvent himself. If I have one lesson to pass down, it’s that there are no failures, only learning opportunities. It’s going to be hard to tell him that isn’t true for everyone.

  Pete’s name is a reminder of something else, as well: a moment in the history of the city, his city, when Brooklyn became not just a place to live but a lifestyle. I imagine that will seem weird by the time he grows up and the Old Stone House is a thirty-story condo and Red Hook is underwater. I kind of hope it does.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A debt of gratitude to my parents, Lawrence and Judy Browne, and to my teachers, particularly Meg Medina, Keith Young, Alan Ziegler, and Mark Slouka.

  Shout out to Tomas Hunt, my partner in not-for-profit crime.

  Thanks to G.K. Darby, Katie Pfalzgraff, and Thomas Price for their thoughtful stewardship of the manuscript and to all those who gave suggestions, advice, and support: Julie Bissell, Vanessa Davis, Colin Delaney, Rory Evans, Mike Harvkey, Jon Hull, E. Tyler Lindvall, Matt Mittenthal, Martha Schulman, and Mark Woltman.

  Much respect to all the people in government, schools, foundations, nonprofits, and communities who fight the good fight every day. I hope I’ve honored you by counterexample.

  This novel is dedicated to Lisa, Theo, and Mabel, the light that makes my garden grow.