by Lon S. Kaufman
I’m floating on the oil slick atop the swimming pool of chicken soup in front of me at grandma’s rent-controlled Inwood home. We’d go every Sunday along with grandma’s ten sibs, their kids, and their kids of kids. All dripping five-story walk-up sweat into the loud one-bedroom, grease-based sauna smelling of fricassee, matzah farfalle, and White Shoulders. Over the river and through Hollis’ Hills we walked to the E train, transferred at 42 St. to the Ellington A train, passed under Harlem and rode to the end of the line. Grease bloated bellies on the reverse ride home followed by the mile long walk through our one fare zone. Hollis, home of Run D.M.C., Christmas in Hollis. Home to L.L.Cool J., Hollis to Hollywood. Maybe shoulda been Holliswood to Hollywood. Uh-huh, Uh-huh. Hollis, home of The Reverend Al, the Cuomo’s, and Sista Soldier. Who says we can’t see stars in NY! Each night electric powered points of light appear first at street level and then as part of mighty galaxies spiraling towards the penthouses of Manhattan. Nothing to look up to in Hollis ‘cept folks with cars. No car, no dates, no escapes. No life. No soundtrack in my ears back in the day as I walked the mile each way. We whistled or hummed or sang to ourselves because, as my dad would pinch my cheeks and say, “That’s the fucken New York way.”
BACK