The walk down Kingsland Ave from Norman Ave to Greenpoint Ave took us, Jon and I, by big open lots with hollow building frames that seem to go up overnight and past my favorite claim to fame on our block – Exxon Mobil headquarters.
Crossing Greenpoint Ave by the draw bridge, I cringed to watch cyclists riding by, since the bike lane was used as a right passing lane for cars and parking for movie set haulers.
Luckily my sense of smell was dulled from my cold, but Jon described it as wet concrete and dead armadillos. Apparently, this is an improvement for the sewage treatment plant from recent summers.
Along Provost St we saw how goddamn huge that sewage treatment center is. It has to be to take care of so much “nature.”
At the end of Provost is where we caught our first glimpse of the walk. There was a huge rock at the corner, an old rock with a little plaque on it, and a nice tree where a tiny path began along the back wall of the sewage treatment plant.
“Is this it? Where are the hookers?”
Under the ramp there was a lot more nature, the greenest patch I’d seen since we’d left the house. It seemed like a great place for a homeless person to nuzzle in for the night and there was even a path down there for easy access. But no hookers. If plants could talk, they would talk dirty under there.
Then began the half mile concrete march. The only thing not concrete was the sky above us. The 10 foot walls had little peep holes. “I bet you there is nature in there.” Instead we found sewage canals and dumpsters.
“It doesn’t look that disgusting,” I said as I edged closer.
“It’s the sediment,” Jon explained.
It’s what everyone says. The tragedy is in the sediment.
As we continued around the bend, the path got greener, a few young Weeping Willows made for good fluffery. The moon rose over the industrial buildings across the water and I sensed we were in prime hooker territory with so many nooks and crannies. I began looking for a hidden vantage point.
Just as I had found the perfect spot I heard, “We’re closing up, we’re closing up!”
“Anybody else back there?” an out of breath and limping security guard said in a crackly lisp.
“There are no hookers, if that’s what you mean?” I said with my head hanging down.
We walked the concrete path back together while the old man complained that it’s a shame that children these days are taught to be scared of strangers.