On the sunny spring day I first visited Clinton Hill, the north Brooklyn neighborhood where I was apartment shopping, I exited the Clinton/Washington stop on the G train, walked the wide, tree-lined streets. It’s a historic district, meaning developers face restrictions to build the sort of housing that makes them money faster. I liked the shade, the brick and brownstone buildings, the parks, the big old churches. I stopped an elderly African-American woman, asked if she lived in the area.
“Are you thinking about moving here?”
“I am.”
She grabbed my shoulder, stared into my eyes. “Do it. Do it. Move here. You won’t regret it.”
She lived in the Clinton Hill Co-ops, she said. I’d read about them: 1,220 apartments in a dozen 14-story red-brick buildings, seven buildings clustered a half-mile north of the other five, built in World War II to house workers at the Brooklyn Naval Yard a mile or so north.
A city employee in Manhattan, the woman had started renting there in the 1970s. Built for 19th century elites, the neighborhood had decayed, become dangerous; nearby Myrtle Avenue was known as “Murder Avenue.” Into the 1990s, she said, she used to take the subway home, walk to her door, lock it, bolt it twice, not come out
til the sun came up.
Meanwhile, she saved a bit of money, and when the building went co-operative, in 1982, she was able to put a down payment on her apartment. The move to co-op angered long-time renters who couldn’t afford to buy. People no longer held elevator doors for her, she said, closed their front doors when she walked down the hall. Still, she said, it was the best decision she’d ever made.
“And the neighborhood’s come back,” she said. “Can’t you tell?”
I could, I said. (Gentrification had proceeded at such a pace that without substantial financial help from family I couldn’t have considered it.) I never saw the woman again, but several weeks later, when I closed on a Clinton Hill Co-op two-bedroom, I toasted her. I’ve always felt lucky to be here.
While the complex remains diverse, the age divide is stark. Senior citizens congregating on courtyard benches are mostly people of color; parents bringing toddlers to chalk the pavement are mostly white. The vibe is uniformly friendly. But existing tensions burst into view last spring, when the board tried to evict two handymen who’d been living in apartments rent-free. The subsequent spat (which The Times called a “gentrification battle royale”) ended with the handymen keeping their apartments for low rent, and, earlier this year, 11 of the 12 board members being voted out.
When CoronaWorld descended the new board set up a system to help neighbors who can’t or don’t want to go outside — laundry, groceries, pharmacy runs. I signed on as a volunteer, then got sick. Not wanting to expose anyone to my possible Covid-19 virus (The Girlfriend and I weren’t sick enough to be tested), I had to decline a couple of help requests from my building captain. Twice she reached out to ask if we needed help.
Like most places, our co-op has struggled with CoronaWorld regulations. On March 17, the board said, all food and newspaper deliveries would have to be picked up in the lobby; staff would deliver to residents who couldn’t make it there. Uproar. Building lobbies are small; we’d encounter far more people taking elevators to retrieve every take-out order. Three days later, the board flip-flopped: food deliveries were now to be made to our doors. On April 6, the board closed the package rooms; packages were now delivered to our doors, too. (The board last year created staffed package rooms to stop theft; now everyone’s home, theft not a concern.) Laundry room rules, in a few iterations, limited hours and user numbers. (Fold at home!) As of April 16, everyone’s had to wear masks in common areas. At some point the board installed signs telling us to limit elevator use to "one family unit at a time."
Thursday: my building captain texts: Can I buy groceries for a neighbor a few floors down? I get a phone number and name; when I call, I think I recognize the voice of a frequent courtyard visitor. I can’t place her accent.
“I could go to the market,” she says. “I know it’s only across the street. But I just don’t think it’s wise.”
“I think that’s the right choice.”
She reads her list: apples, oranges, bananas, lemons, potatoes, sweet potatoes, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, two seltzer waters (one lemon, one lime), saltine crackers, chicken drumsticks, chicken breasts, 2-percent lactose-free milk.
“Is that all?”
“Well.” She hesitates. “I guess I’d like one more thing: an apple pie.”
“I’ve eaten those pies; they’re good. What if they’re out of apple?”
“I guess blueberry would be okay. But I’d prefer apple.”
“Me, too.”
I prepare to go out. I wear a new right-wrist brace (tendonitis from steady laptop use); pulling a plastic glove over it is a hassle. I don mask, raincoat, head out. Usually I bring my own grocery bags, but I can’t use them for someone else’s food. The rain is steady. As usual in CoronaWorld, traffic at the market is light.
I’ve never shopped for a stranger. So many choices. Two kinds of oranges, bananas, lemons. (I skip the organics.) Twelve kinds of apples. (I pick Fujis.) I see no iceberg lettuce, pick red leaf. I put everything in the plastic bags I generally shun. I pick the brand of seltzer water I like. I’m pleased there’s but one brand of lactose-free milk. I go with non-organic chicken. (One-third the price.) I pick saltines in the package I know from childhood illnesses. They have apple pie.
Cost: $52.40. I use my frequent-shopper card, which after $300 in purchases gives $10 off. My discount is due; I contribute it to the neighborly cause, figure it’s a fair trade for pocketing 52 points toward my next discount. No one’s in line behind me; I run to the aisles to check: no white flour (my sister’s been hunting) but, for the first time in a month, yeast. I grab a 3-pack, buy it separately.
I carry three paper bags into a much heavier rain. I try to walk fast, but as I arrive at the building one gives way: chicken packages bounce, seltzer bottles roll. I put two bags down, collect chicken and seltzer, wrap it in the bag remnant, tuck it under my arm, buzz myself in. In the elevator my jacket drips onto the bags, the floor. I get to my neighbor’s floor, place sodden bags near her door. I ring the bell, step back. No response. I ring again. Nothing. I put ear to door, hear a distant conversation. I knock, call her name. The conversation stays distant. I knock louder, call louder, ring a third time.
I step back. I can’t leave groceries in the hall. I could take them upstairs. But I have her number. I grab my phone, stab at the glass to unlock it — impossible with gloves. I take off a glove; it catches on the wrist brace, tears. I need my glasses. I unzip a pocket, don glasses, search for her number. The door opens. It’s the courtyard regular, a wisp of a woman, thin black hair, thick black glasses. She’s on the phone.
“Hold on, Charlene,” she says, then, to me, “I thought I heard the doorbell.”
Charlene’s still talking. I gesture to the bags, whisper an apology for the torn bag’s state.
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” she says. “Bless you. Charlene? Charlene! Hold on!”
“Do you want some help?”
“No, no. I’ll just drag them in. I can just drag them.” I can’t place her accent. Northern Appalachia? She starts to drag a bag with one hand, thinks better, turns, puts the phone on a low table. “One second, Charlene!” She drags with two hands. “See? This is just fine.”
“You’re sure you’ve got it?” Why am I still whispering?
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
No chance to explain my grocery choices. I back away. “OK. You take care.”
“Bless you!”
I text a picture of the receipt to the building captain. She asks for my PayPal ID, says a GoFundMe site will reimburse me. We thank each other, glad to be able to help our neighbor.
(New York state numbers as of Thursday: 263,460 diagnosed with Covid-19, up 2.4 percent; 438 dead, to a total of 15,740, up 2.9 percent. Overall U.S. deaths: 1,998, to a total of 44,201, up 4.7 percent.)
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