 Peekskill's 6th annual Family Pride was a joyous affair, especially for the next generation, and was filled with bubbles, light rain, delicious food, community spirit, and plenty of fun. Somewhere between Pride Festival, Pride March, and “whatever we’re calling it this year,” summer officially arrived—dragging behind it the sticky leftovers of a sudden heatwave that had pressed down on the New York area, from the Hudson Valley to the edge of the urban sprawl that seems to stretch all the way up toward Danbury, Connecticut. Peekskill’s little celebration, Peekskill Family Pride, is now in its sixth year—and it has grown up quite a bit. Naturally, it rained again, because apparently Pride in Peekskill comes with its own weather tradition. This time, though, the rain was welcome: less dramatic downpour, more relentless warm drizzle, like the sky had decided to mist us all into better spirits. I had planned to start the day at Whisky River with a cocktail, which sounded festive enough. But WR was packed wall-to-wall with people from out of town, so I managed one beer and made my exit almost as quickly as I had arrived. On this particular day, happiness at Whisky River was found mostly in leaving it. The festival itself was full of tents to wander through: St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, Sun River Health, a poet who would write something from whatever little spark you gave her, a petting tent with baby goats—yes, baby goats, and yes, they were as cute as advertised—Bloomer chicks, and plenty more. What made Peekskill’s Pride feel special was how much it leaned into family and community rather than the big-city politics of Pride celebrations farther south. It felt smaller, warmer, and more intimate because of that. Yes, a few familiar political faces were there—Colin Smith and Cait Conley among them—but there was no shouting match, no protest against this or that, and no one screaming for rights we already have. It was simply people showing up for one another. Entertainment was hosted again by Paige, a drag queen from New York who sang beautifully and looked fabulous in a rainbow dress and big blond hair. Honestly, the children seemed to be having even more fun than the adults, which made the whole thing feel less like a history lesson about Stonewall or Compton’s Cafeteria and more like a festival built for the next generation. There was even story time, where kids learned what different colors represent—orange for healing, I believe, and black for diversity. By the end, I had to admit I’d had a joyous time. I was especially impressed by the people from St. Peter’s, who were warm, welcoming, and quick to extend an invitation to their church. Their pastor, AJ—openly gay, handsome, and gracious—made me feel particularly welcomed, which may be the best kind of Pride souvenir there is.
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 Having lunch with two women at Ruben's Mexican Cafe on North Division Street. Downstairs in the building, just outside the manager’s office, they were setting up for a celebration of Father’s Day and Men’s Mental Health Month. I’ll admit it: Men’s Mental Health Month is yet another June observance I somehow missed. At this point, June has more themes than a cable television package, and apparently I am subscribed to none of them. But today’s blog post to close out the week is not really about that, since I won’t be attending whatever they are having downstairs. Yes, I can be a little anti-social when it comes to neighbors. I know the old phrase says, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” but I have revised it for apartment living: love your neighbor from a comfortable distance, preferably one hallway, two locked doors, and no shared Wi-Fi password away. After all, who wants someone knocking all the time to borrow a cup of sugar? In this economy, sugar is practically a luxury item. Not so long ago, I finally had lunch at Ruben’s Mexican Café, courtesy of a wonderful person I was introduced to at Sun River. I must say, after hearing all the mixed reviews from other people, I’m glad I didn’t listen. The place sits nicely at the south end of North Division Street, right by Mary’s Beauty Salon, where I see so many Latino men go to get their hair designed like works of art. It was my first time in that building in so long I can’t even remember the year—only that it was my birthday. I had planned to spend that day at the top of the Empire State Building, and I was still living in San Francisco, but my cousins here had other plans. We ended up having dinner there back when the place was called GrapeVine, or something close to that. I’m glad I accepted their birthday surprise because I had a really good time: one cousin sang, put on a show, and all of us danced together in a group. Thank goodness for the group part, because that meant no individual performance could be properly witnessed. Now that same space has changed completely as Ruben’s. It feels more open, more colorful, and full of Mexican décor, including a portrait of the famous Mexican artist Frida Kahlo near the stage area in the back. They have live music at night, too. Sometimes, Ruben’s seems to be the only place still rocking on North Division after 2 a.m. in this very quiet town, where life moves at a much slower speed than New York City. Ruben’s was a delight. I ordered an espresso martini while I waited for my two friends, both women and both, I believe, Dominican. And yes, both are beautiful, funny, and a joy to have as friends. We had the kind of good time we always have, and I learned a few new things about them that I absolutely cannot share here. I will only say this: it gave me quite a laugh, because I never knew women felt that way about certain things just like us guys do. Amazing! The meal was delicious. I wasn’t terribly hungry, but I ordered the ribs anyway, and they turned out to be very good. The tortillas were fresh and wonderful. I also ended up having a margarita, which is not exactly hard to do in a Mexican restaurant. By the time we left, I wasn’t drunk—but I was certainly feeling good enough to consider a little harmless mischief.  A dove settles on the fire escape, gazing out over the garden in Greenpoint. Pigeons are birds, too—and in Greenpoint, they like to announce this before the sun has fully made up its mind. From the fire escape, their soft cooing rolls into the morning like a tiny neighborhood orchestra warming up. They arrive in pairs, these city romantics. I’ve heard pigeons mate for life, which sounds almost suspiciously noble for birds who also strut around like they own the sidewalk. Still, I admire the commitment. I might even be the same way myself, whenever—if ever—I find a permanent mate worth cooing over. Of course, the pigeons are not the only performers. Other birds join in, louder and busier, filling the morning with chirps, calls, and whatever urgent gossip birds trade before breakfast. The pigeons seem gentler than most of them—though perhaps not as gentle as doves, who always look as if they are auditioning for peace itself. There are so many trees in this part of Brooklyn that the backyards blur into one long, leafy square hidden from the street. Bushes climb high, branches lean over fences, and the whole green tangle makes it hard to tell where one neighbor’s little kingdom ends and another begins. That is the pleasure of the top floor: you can open the windows, let the fresh air wander in, and listen to the whole feathered cast calling for mates, feeding babies, and carrying on as if the block belongs to them. It is an ideal place to write because it is quiet without being empty. You know New York is out there—trains grinding, trucks sighing, someone somewhere arguing about parking—but up here, with birds singing all day and a lone dove landing on the fire escape like a visiting saint, the city softens. It feels a little like heaven, or at least my version of it, though I suspect heaven would eventually check my record and send me right back to earth. It is hard to leave New York when it is time to go home again. You start making bargains with the future: one of these days, when the bank account behaves, when life finally stops tapping its foot, you’ll stay. You’ll unpack for good. You’ll become one of those people who says “my neighborhood” with the confidence of someone who has no train to catch. But for now, old Peekskill will do just fine. It is not so far from the city by train—shorter by car, sure, but trains give a person time to think, stare out the window, and pretend every passing river view is part of a movie. Peekskill is an all-right kind of town, especially because New York is still there for weekends, long weekdays, and sudden escapes. And every morning in my loft, I hear the same birds carrying on outside my window, reminding me that wherever I land, the day begins with a little music 
  Hell's Kitchen Level 42, like every other bar in Manhattan the night the Knicks clinched it in five, was jam-packed, leaving barely any space to move around. Fresh from the theatre, we stepped straight into the neon churn of Times Square — the crossroads of the world and, that night, the crossroads of every fan base on earth. Shoulder to shoulder, inching forward, politely at first, then with the grim determination of someone trying to board the last train home. Soccer fans were everywhere, still buzzing after Morocco tied Brazil — chanting, dancing, waving flags, turning whole corners into little street parades. I knew the Knicks were in San Antonio for Game 5, but I didn’t expect a win. New York hope is a complicated thing. People crowded outside bars just to stare through windows at the screens. Inside, the places were packed so tight it felt like you needed Olympic qualifications just to get in. Then it happened — as if the sky cracked open and poured down buckets of joy. Knicks 94, Spurs 90. Knicks in five. Times Square erupted. Car horns blared. Women jumped up and down, hair flying. Young men screamed so loudly I briefly wondered if they were celebrating or being medically attended to. It was madness — glorious, ridiculous madness. “Go Knicks!” “Knicks in five!” The chanting rolled through the streets like a revival meeting: part sports celebration, part holy visitation, part New York losing its collective mind in public, as New York was born to do. And of course, every hand held a phone. People filmed the crowd, filmed themselves, filmed other people filming themselves. Joy had become social media content. Welcome to modern times. It took nearly an hour to get from Times Square to Hell’s Kitchen — the streets had turned into a singing obstacle course. At Level 42 on 9th Avenue, I found the same bathroom line I’d survived earlier at the Winter Garden — mercifully shorter, but still a civic institution. The bar was packed with every kind of New Yorker. A glamorous Tranny reveler danced with a Hindu man. Strangers became backup singers. And when Alicia Keys’s “Empire State of Mind” came on, the whole place rose up like it had been waiting for that exact cue. It was ridiculous. It was beautiful. It was super fun. A night to remember. I felt happy for New York, happy for Knicks fans, happy for anyone who thought they might never see a night like this again. And still the night wasn’t finished with us. It took hours to get back to Greenpoint. The subway platforms were so packed I nearly had a panic attack just looking at the sea of people. Then one line shut down — because of course it did — and we had to invent yet another route home. Finally, when we did get on a train and everything seemed calm, a group boarded and broke into song. Soon the whole car was waving their hands, shouting: “New York! New York! Knicks!” At five o’clock in the morning. Five. In. The. Morning. Times Square
 There’s a perfect burger for everyone — well done, medium rare, practically mooing — and I respect all of them, even the wrong ones. Whiskey River makes a fine burger, no question, but when I want my burger, the one that hits the char‑on‑the‑outside, rare‑to‑medium‑rare sweet spot, I go to Five Leaves in Williamsburg. And this one? This one did the trick. I took one bite and immediately forgave every bad burger I’ve ever met. The fries were so good they made McDonald’s fries feel like something you give a toddler to keep them quiet. Williamsburg itself was showing off. The whole street looked like the world had gotten younger overnight — everyone in sleeveless tees and shorts, strolling like they were auditioning for a summer they already owned. Forma Pasta next door was buzzing too, mopeds zipping in and out with delivery bags like a Roman cavalry. Meanwhile, I was two martinis deep — the 5L martinis, the ones that come with that adorable little bottle in a bowl of ice, like a pet you’re supposed to finish. You don’t need a second martini there, but they give it to you anyway, which feels like encouragement and a warning at the same time. My friend’s steak melted on the tongue. The staff — bartenders, waitresses, the whole cast — were beautiful in that effortless Brooklyn way, like they were born knowing how to carry a tray and break a heart. By the time the evening turned from warm to a little nippy, I was already planning my return. Five Leaves has earned a spot in my personal gospel: places where the food is good, the drinks are generous, and the night feels like it’s leaning in to tell you a secret. Five Leaves 18 Bedford Avenue Williamsburg, Brooklyn  Two minutes before lights out, the stage is set for a dramatic moment—mist and fog swirling as a garage door slowly rises to reveal a Chevy pulling in with headlights bright. Willy Loman steps out, clad in a raincoat and carrying two briefcases, in Arthur Miller’s *Death of a Salesman*, a limited revival at the Winter Garden in New York. What is there left to say about Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman that hasn’t already been said? Maybe nothing in the official, critical sense. This is not a review. Definitely not. It is only my own personal insight into what happened to me sitting in the Winter Garden Theatre, watching Nathan Lane’s Willy Loman fall apart under the weight of his own illusions, and Christopher Abbott’s Biff cry through his heartache, disappointment, and terrible clarity. It was Abbott’s Biff who undid me—the way he seemed to cry from the deepest part of himself, through all the disappointment of not becoming the man his father imagined, and through the crushing knowledge that the whole “well-liked” family fantasy was a fake. That was what brought tears to my eyes. You know the kind: the hard tears, the ones that come when joy and grief collide so suddenly that you can’t stop them, whether they fall silently or escape before you can catch yourself. The performers received a huge standing ovation, and after all that emotional intensity, the intermission brought its own kind of relief—literal relief, judging from the bathroom lines. The men’s room line was as long as the women’s, long enough that they had to open another bathroom for the men or risk half of us missing the second act. Then came the hilarious moment: a man came charging down the stairs, right past everyone, clearly thinking he had found a shortcut to salvation. Only when he reached the front did he realize his mistake. There we were, the next two in line, staring back at him with the quiet authority of people who had earned our place. He stopped, understood, hung his head, and walked all the way back upstairs to the end of the line, which stretched past the concession area. I can only hope he was able to hold it as long as the rest of us had. And then we went back in. I can still see that old Chevy backing out of the garage onstage through the mist, while some of us cried because we knew what was coming next. Poor, sad Willy Loman, trapped by every illusion from his past and present, moving toward the only ending he could imagine. By then, the play had done what great theatre sometimes does: it had made the audience laugh in the hallway, then returned us to our seats and broke our hearts all over again.  A crowd arrives right on time for the 8 p.m. Broadway showing of Death of a Salesman at the Winter Garden Theatre.  A packed Metro-North Express full of people heading to Knicks watch parties or everything else Manhattan has to offer. So, there we were—hundreds of us packed onto the Peekskill platform, all anxious to get to the City. Most were headed to New York Knicks watch parties scattered across Manhattan, and the rest of us looked like we had been recruited for an unofficial stress test of the Hudson Line. People had boarded from Dutchess, and Putnam counties, from the stations of Poughkeepsie, New Hamburg, Beacon, Cold Spring, and Garrison, and by the time the train reached Peekskill in Westchester County, it was already full. Not “standing room only” full. More like “please become one with the nearest stranger” full. Thank goodness it was an express, meaning that after Tarrytown, no one else would be invited into our rolling human casserole. We were packed like sardines—sardines with backpacks, tote bags, suitcases, and for reasons known only to Metro-North destiny, bicycles. The group gathered around me was lively, and we had unknowingly won the commuting lottery: we were standing in one of the cars that actually had a working restroom. At first, this felt like good fortune. Then the pilgrimage began. Apparently, the other bathrooms were busted, so passengers started pushing their way through the crowd toward ours as if it were the last restroom in civilization. The Pizza Guy—or at least that’s what the red-haired man standing in front of me called him—announced that the bathroom in his car was broken, and he had fought his way up to ours. “I’m not going back there,” he said. “It was hell getting up here.” We all laughed, partly because it was funny and partly because laughter was the only thing keeping us from forming a commuter tribunal. Then another person came. And another. Even a set of twins appeared, same haircut, same face, one in black shorts and the other in tan shorts, as if Metro-North had hired them to prove we were all beginning to hallucinate. One of our new acquaintances suggested that the six of us pretend we were waiting to use the restroom and charge anyone who wanted to move up front. So, we put the idea into action. To our surprise, it worked. A light-skinned guy with a fro asked if he could send payment via Apple Pay because he really had to go. We laughed, told him we weren’t actually in line and that it was just a joke. He was relieved but insisted he was serious about paying. “It’s OK, bruh,” and the laughter kept going. I’m still not sure whether the air-conditioning was off, broken, or simply having a philosophical disagreement with summer, but it was hot on that train—hotter than the Fourth of July and twice as patriotic. Everyone was sweating. In my mind, I was sweating the most, because discomfort has a way of making you feel personally selected by the weather. I had shorts in my bag but had not put them on because I was going to the theatre to see Death of a Salesman. Then again, these days, theatre attire seems to have loosened up considerably. A friend once told me about a blond man who wore the tiniest shorts while attending Jerome at Playwrights Horizons with a woman, and apparently the ushers did not call for backup. I had meant to see that one too, but I had an ear problem after nicking myself while shaving my head. The damn thing would not stop bleeding, and by the time it finally did, it was too late to rush into New York. Besides, after that much drama in the bathroom mirror, I was no longer in the mood for drama onstage. Somehow, amid the heat, the crowd, and the steady stream of bathroom refugees, camaraderie formed among the six of us standing together. We had started as strangers and, within minutes, became the kind of temporary friends only public transportation can create. We even compared notes about where we were the night of the Knicks history making come back to the beat the Spurs in Game 4. That was fun to hear as most of us, including myself, had turned off the TV and forgotten about it until morning when we were shocked to read the Knicks had won. Matt, from a town farther north than Peekskill, must have noticed my slow transformation into a wilted houseplant and offered me a bottle of water. I truly needed it. That was nice—genuinely nice. Several in the group planned to sleep over somewhere after the watch party, wisely assuming they would be too intoxicated to brave the late train back up the Hudson. None of us even wanted to imagine what that return trip would look like. If the ride down was a sardine can, the ride back promised to be the aquarium after feeding time. Surely Metro-North could have used more trains that day. Every train heading to New York was already full by the time it reached Peekskill, and we still had another fifty-five minutes before the Bronx. Fifty-five minutes can be nothing. On that train, it felt like a full semester in commuter survival studies—with a minor in restroom logistics.
 An old living room set that would look amazing in my apartment and might give a whole new meaning to the Painted People Story. There were probably a dozen or more things I saw that I wanted to carry home from Williamsburg: a chair with just enough wear to have a story, paintings that looked as if they had once hung in someone’s serious dining room, books with cracked spines, odd little figurines, and at least one piece of furniture that made me stop and calculate the impossible distance back to Peekskill. I had wandered into Brooklyn Junk—also known around Williamsburg simply as Junk—and the name was not false advertising. The whole place had the glorious, overstuffed feeling of Fred Sanford’s front yard on Sanford and Son, if Fred had developed a taste for vintage ashtrays, old lamps, kitchenware, postcards, and the kind of objects that make you say, “Now why do I need this?” right before you pick it up. That was the fun of it. Brooklyn Junk was not trying to be precious. It was not one of those perfectly curated shops where every object seems to know its price and its lighting angle. This was a place for wandering. A place for bending down, peering under tables, lifting something dusty and mysterious, and then listening to the people around you do the same thing. The aisles were full of conversations: shoppers negotiating with themselves, friends calling each other over, someone laughing at a lamp, someone else deciding whether an object was ugly or wonderful or both. One of the owners—or at least I decided he must be one of the owners—said hello. He was a nice-looking man with gray hair, a neat beard, and handsome legs in a pair of shorts, which is the sort of detail one notices in a place where everything is on display. Even the people seemed to belong to the inventory: interesting, weathered, slightly theatrical, and worth looking at twice. A young boy was searching very seriously for the right ashtray. Not just any ashtray—the right one. And there were plenty to choose from. Glass ones, heavy ones, tacky ones, elegant ones, the kind that looked as if they had survived three apartments, two divorces, and a bridge night in 1974. There was plenty of everything at Brooklyn Junk. That was the danger. The longer I stayed, the more the store began making arguments on behalf of objects I had no room for. I could have used a pickup truck, a stronger back, and maybe a second apartment just for the things I nearly bought. Instead, I browsed like a woman visiting a museum where the exhibits could follow her home if she was not careful. I touched a few things, considered a few more, and practiced the discipline of leaving them behind. That is the strange heartbreak of a good thrift store: you fall a little bit in love over and over again, then walk out empty-handed because Metro-North is no place for a coffee table. Still, the store stayed with me. Not because it was polished, but because it was alive. It had humor, clutter, history, and the gentle chaos of other people’s former lives stacked on shelves. Brooklyn Junk made me wish Williamsburg were closer to Peekskill—or that I were the sort of person who casually drives around with an empty truck, ready for destiny in the form of a battered side table and a box of old books.  One Sunday, I think I shall buy The Times and attempt to summon the past. It is that glorious month of Pride, at least in the city, though New Yorkers seem, at present, far more animated by the Knicks being in the NBA Finals. I could not care less about the Knicks—or, for that matter, any sports team. The spectacle of ordinary people roaring with devotion for millionaires already enjoying themselves, and paid obscenely well to do so, has never made much sense to me.
Joaquin comes and goes, and at times my house feels almost more his than mine. That is all right. He does, after all, bring me pleasure when I need it. We never seem able to keep away from one another for very long. There is something between us—what exactly, I cannot say, and perhaps it is of no consequence. I have received an invitation to the Winter Garden to see the work of one of my favorite playwrights, Arthur Miller. They are staging Death of a Salesman. Miller was once married to Marilyn Monroe, and everyone knows how deeply I care for her. What a woman—what radiance. She would have turned one hundred on June 1st, had she lived so long. In some strange way, I am glad she did not. I would not wish to disturb the image I carry of her. I believe Miller was her third husband. As for Death of a Salesman, I remember finding it rather dull, though I am willing to give it another chance before seeing the revival on Broadway. Meanwhile, in Peekskill, you realize there are straight couples—most of them, really—you could quite happily do without, except for Danni and Rosa, your favorite straight couple of all time: the kind of couple you aspire to be, though in a different way. Today I liked how they could be in front of me without shame—the way Danni’s gentle fingers ran across Rosa’s back, the way she sat on his lap and held him there, and the way we all smiled. It felt oddly exciting |
AuthorCHARLES PEARSON 
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