"Black Friday Deals and the Peekskill Zoo"

​The new “No Name” store at the far east end of Main Street finally has a name: Black Friday Deals. It’s taken over the old Joann’s spot in Beach Shopping Center, and it’s already causing a stir. Every day has its own price point—$4 Mondays, $10 Fridays—spread across three long rows of tables stacked with Amazon packages, most likely returns or overstock. The place feels more like a thrift shop than a retail store, stuffed with mystery boxes, flea market finds, and the occasional new item: bicycles, canvas paintings, refrigerators, sofas, washing machines, clothes. You name it.

Whatever the deal, this is Peekskill’s new hotspot. I saw the mayor there. You’ll see your cousins, too, your lovers, your exes—the ones you swore you’d never see again. They’re all here. Old and young, every race, every color, every new color. Everything in a skirt, pants or shorts. The place is packed, and Peekskill is on fire with this new addition at the edge of town, right near the border with Cortlandt Manor.

It makes you wonder what a place like this could’ve done for downtown. People need to eat, drink, linger. This would’ve been a plus for Main Street. But kudos to Beach Shopping Center for the find. Not everything can be downtown, after all.

I bought a large canvas print to hang over the sofa—something that echoes the Cubism piece in my writing area and the squares in the rug that tie the living room to the dining room. I suppose I’ll be back, even if I prefer the solitude of online shopping. The in-person experience felt cheap, overwhelming—a zoo of wild-eyed species pulling, grabbing, opening boxes like treasure chests or traps. For an introvert, once is plenty.

Still, I left with two Ken dolls. Bookends, I told myself. They’ll flank the Greek statue and the David I’ve ordered. A little camp, a little myth.

As time passes, I realize—albeit slowly—that not everyone in my life is truly a friend. This lesson extends even to family, where the lines become even blurrier. Sometimes, family members aren’t necessarily out to harm me; rather, they seek out information to use as leverage against each other. They believe they’ve uncovered some truth, but more often than not, they’re mistaken.

With hindsight, I finally understand the warnings my mother often shared about certain people even so-called relatives. The ones because of blood are supposed to have your back but that is not always the case. She was attuned to the red flags, alert to the subtleties long before I recognized them. Back then, I ignored her warning—but not anymore. I can’t keep overlooking what’s so obvious now. Going back to the trough, knowing full well what’s there, would only be my own fault.

Now, I am reminded that kindness does not equate to trust. Just because I am friendly does not mean I place my confidence in everyone. The circle of those I truly trust is small—so small, in fact, that I can count them on one hand, just as it has always been.

Ken stands watch where prose meets poster, beneath the geometry of memory.

The church spire stands like a memory, the buildings murmur with quiet witness, as Peekskill glimmers in the sunset.