By Rita Wu

I’ll take the train out there late at night—I like watching the people that stay on after the Newkirk stop. There’s always one guy sitting at the end of the car, clipping his nails. I know that he’ll be getting off at the same stop as me. Once you’re out and on the platform, you can smell the water and feel the openness of the neighborhood. 

I’d never been around this part of Brooklyn. I’ve hung out in Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst, but Sheepshead Bay was new territory. My boyfriend moved here towards the end of the summer. He lives a couple of blocks from the train, on a little side street that’s not even called a street but a court. It feels suburban with its bare sidewalks, lawns and old people. 

The Bagel House next to the train has some of the best bagels in the city and the most incompetent people. No matter how simple your order is, they’re sure to fuck it up. Mornings, the surly high-school girls snatch money out of your hand and slam change back on the counter. The guys bark for your order and still get it wrong. Everyone is too busy to deal with lines, so you have to take pains to hold your position. And in the midst of the crush is the eat-in clientele: an old man with a sea-captain hat and a stack of individually-wrapped bagels; cousins with orange tans and cheap gold, still coming down from the night before. 

You can tell a neighborhood by its supermarket. The Russian one has endless numbers of products that will put your grocery store to shame. It feels like a warehouse; everything is on near-toppling steel shelves. Five burly women in white jackets and heavy makeup wait behind the deli counter, chatting busily, working occasionally. Besides all the slabs of meat, there are bowls upon bowls of different Russian delicacies. 

When I finally mustered up the courage to go to the Towne Café, I didn’t know what to expect. I dimly imagined being tortured by Russian mobsters, or attacked by underage strippers with stilettos in hand. The thick double doors hold in all sights and sounds; the windows are too high for peeking. There are signs tacked onto the windows: “Women 21 and older. Men 30 and older. We refuse the right to serve anyone.” 

I smoked a cigarette and focused on the “Free Buffet Daily 4-8” sign, put it out and made my move. Inside, through the red curtains, the room is bathed in red light from above and ringed in red Christmas lights; top-to-bottom mirrors cover the walls. A couple in their seventies was arguing, and a middle-aged man was chatting up the bartender. The circular bar stands in the middle of the room, and to the side is a small dance floor, complete with mini disco ball and a framed picture of Marilyn Monroe. Next to it is a DJ platform. 

I got myself a Dewar’s and Coke and sat on a high stool facing the arguing couple. Down along the bar the buffet was set up. A stack of paper plates, forks and a sack of hamburger rolls rested next to an aluminum-covered dish. I asked the bartender what the buffet was tonight. “Chicken. Help yourself.” A tiny thing, she looked like she had been there as long as the bar, which according to her had been there for at least 60 years. “The neighborhood’s different now,” she tells me. “There’s a lot of Russians, a lot of Albanians. We have a DJ, but she only plays Russian stuff.” I’ve seen the Russians come in, dressed to the nines, but it’s hard to imagine a dance party here. 

My boyfriend picked me up from the train one fall evening with a spliff in hand. We walked in quiet, through quiet, and smoked leisurely amongst the small houses and trees. A car trailed slowly behind us down Ave. Y. It caught us at the corner, and an old woman with barely any teeth stuck a rose out the window. “You want a flower? You want a flower?” Behind her an even older man sat holding the wheel. His mouth agape, he gave us a dead stare. Neither of them had any whites in their eyes, just watery dark patches. Glenn shook his head and took my hand. “Oh my god ohmygod.” We crossed the street. 

An Applebee’s and a Nine West outlet have sprung up on Emmons Ave., but neighborhood staples like the original Roll N Roaster are still around. Seagulls circle above, the old shuffle about in couples or by their lonesome and locals litter the benches on the piers. Walking along the bay I pass a merry hobo hobbling with one leg, crutches and an Ace bandage she’s made into a headband. A woman with bleached-blonde hair held down by pink strips screams into a payphone. And then there’s Sweik. 15 men inside, all seated at a long wooden bench, and no women. The men are flush from drink, laughing, eating and spitting Russian. Servers in army jackets pile up huge quantities of meat onto wood blocks while a deer head looks placidly on and bus boys in fake yellow tuxedo shirts scurry around clearing beer mugs, trying to fit more food onto the table. A cuckoo comes out, makes its rounds, returns to its clock.

Further down Emmons, there are a handful of alleyways. On Lake Ave., the street is so narrow only two people can walk side by side. One-story houses face each another and give little breathing space. You can literally look into someone’s living room from your own. One house has wooden ducks dangling from a fence. Another has a child’s graffiti: “I have 21,000 friends,” “I love God and Jesus,” “Ciara is mad wack.” I feel like I’m reading from someone’s diary. I feel embarrassed, and turn away. But really, no one here seems to care.