BALTIMORE HAS THE Poe Toaster. Punxsutawney, a groundhog that predicts the weather. In Brooklyn, the piece of modern folklore that peaks local interest isn’t animal but electronic—specifically, an outmoded telephone that occasionally pops up across the street from Pinchik Hardware on Bergen Street in Park Slope.This ancient and partially wooden crank phone is humanity’s only link to an otherworldly entity known as “The Pinchik Oracle,” an all-knowing being that has decided to periodically field our questions and answer them on an electronic sign above the hardware store in question.
The intrigue was overwhelming when a friend first relayed to me the mystery of Brooklyn’s phantom phone. Was this some lonely old shut-in’s bizarre way of keeping in touch with the outside world? I pictured an Ernest Borgnine look-alike holed up in some dusty study, flipping through encyclopedias to answer children’s questions about their future and tree frogs.
When I found out the Oracle was associated with a retailer of socket wrenches and house paint, well, a considerable amount of mystery washed away.Yet, I was still curious. Based on the few articles I managed to dig up online, the Pinchik Oracle had hooked a small but fierce group of followers who regularly congregated outside the store searching not for hammers or screws but for serious, life-affirming answers. What sex will my baby be? Will I ever get my dream job? How many feet are in a yard?
Sadly, Oracle fans are at the mercy of the finicky cosmic being, which, since debuting in late 2003, only appears once every few months with about a week’s notice (via the aforementioned sign).
One afternoon last May, I went down to see if the Oracle was taking queries. No such luck; the LED sign was merely pimping lug nut deals, and there was no phone to be seen. Inside Pinchik, the cagey employees bounced me from one manager to another when they heard what I was snooping around about. Eventually, I found myself climbing a flight of stairs that lead to the store’s corporate offices. There I met owner Matthew Pinchik, who graciously showed me the much-ballyhooed Oracle phone but generally acted as if he was guarding government secrets. In fact, I did not learn Matthew’s name until long after he’d thrown me out for voicing my belief that he was treating me like a drooling toddler. Matthew maneuvered around all my inquiries with a smirk, suggesting information concerning the Oracle’s true age, it’s accuracy percentage and how it often knows what people are wearing was already out there and I hadn’t done enough research. He also took a few shots at my wardrobe.
Before this unpleasantness, Mr. Pinchik offered a few theories ascribed to his big O, including a belief some hold that he/she/it “sits high up in the tower of the Williamsburg Savings Bank and can see all below him.” The more logical conclusion is that the Pinchik Oracle is just some dude with a laptop who sits in that very office, watching his questioners through a window as they wait across the street. Many on the outside finger Brooklyn writer Jonathan Safran Foer as the man behind the curtain, which would fit Foer’s M.O. The Everything Is Illuminated author is known for his wacky, pretentious gimmicks; Jon’s personal website presents a nice subterfuge in the form of a fake subway train museum map (an e-mail to Foer regarding the Oracle went unanswered). Other scribes who’ve been implicated in this mindbending case include Colson Whitehead, Paul Auster, Jonathan Lethem and Jonathan Ames.
Matthew Pinchik wouldn’t confirm or deny any of this, but he did volunteer a handful of facts about the wizard what resides at his shop: the Oracle does not like questions about politics and refuses to answer them; the Oracle convinced Mr. Pinchik to marry his wife, who is also employed at the hardware store; the Oracle is intended to be “a fun thing, something with a bit of hocus pocus because the world’s become too serious”; the Oracle could only ever be the one person it is because the answers often have to be ever so charming and witty (“I couldn’t do it,” Pinchik remarked).
OK, yeah, sure—but why a hardware store? Does this nonsense really boost sales? Who’s next in line should the figure behind this mysterious disembodied retail Merlin get hit by a truck? These were simply more questions Pinchik couldn’t (or refused to) firmly answer. I guess I should just ask the Oracle directly the next time it descends from the heavens. Unfortunately, there is currently no date set for an official and concrete P.O. return. You’d think in this crazy, technology-driven world we live in, there’d be an iPhone app to help coordinate Oracle visits.
“That’ll be back in a few months, I think,” said on smiling Pinchik employee when I confronted her. “But we really can’t be sure, you know?” She then looked at me as if to say, Silly customer, you’ll never know the secrets of our Pinchik Oracle! Maybe that’s for the best.
In retrospect, I think America was a cooler place to live before we found out Deep Throat was just some bitter yutz who had been passed over for a job. Still, there is a perverse satisfaction in unmasking heroes and figuring out the unexplained. I can’t say I’ll be too sad should the Pinchik Oracle decide to give the game away and leave that big glowing red sign strictly for the advertisement of lumber. The world needs mystery and intrigue, but I think it needs building supplies slightly more.
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