Brooklyn
Paradise first met Keith when she was eight years old and went with her girl to the Coney Island Projects. Her friend’s grandmother lived there and while the grown-ups talked and listened to Donna Summer’s On the Radio the kids ran around the iron-encased building. She always thought it funny that you could see the Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone through the iron mesh of the windows.
The night she met Keith the night was denim blue and the street lamps that lit up the compound had a Narnia kind of magic to it. They hung out in front of the building and Keith practiced balancing on his friend’s bike as Paradise sat between her friends shiny black knees and subjected herself to getting her hair corn-rowed. Although it was summer the trees seemed anemic and the kids could smell the rich smell of collard greens wafting out of someone’s encaged windows. He’d try to balance, succeed and then bike away.
“He likes you.” Yolanda said as she combed out a row of Paradise’s hair to braid.
“He is cute.” Paradise tried to give her voice that grown-up lilt to it, that Southern twang that she heard all the grown folks talk with. Keith rode back and attempted to balance on his bike again. He wore an oversized basketball shirt. His arms were skinny but already muscular. He had large eyes with sleepy eyelids. His hair was cut close to his head, with a shaved-in side part.
“Hey Paradise. Can I get your number?” If looks could kill he would have been dead on the spot. “What you want my telephone number for?” She was elated.
“Because—“ he spat the first word out all offended-like, “I want to call you.”
“Okay.” She smiled and he relaxed. She gave him her telephone number. Just then Poochie his friend rolled over like a bowling ball. “What you asking for her number for? You ain’t got no phone.” Strike. Keith rode away before anyone could see his cheeks red. Paradise hated Poochie for killing the vibe. Poochie was one of those Negroes who’s parents bought him all the latest gear and he just thought he owned shit.
“Why you don’t give me your telephone number pretty girl?”
“You? Puhleeze. You think you all that cause you be looking fly and all that. What I don’t understand is, if you looking so good and you got all that stuff, why your parents still living in the Projects?” Poochie looked at her like she was crazy. “Forget you girl. I ain’t got time for this this shit.
Keith called her. Keith called her. It was the only time the phone rang and when her mother passed her the phone, she picked it up it was him. The phone was full of static and she asked, “Kieth, where you calling me from?” Her father was passed out drunk on the couch and she didn’t have to worry about him hearing her cause he never heard anything while he was sleeping. Once Paradise threw a party in her room with all the kids in the building listening to music and the whole nine and he didn’t wake up one inch.
“From the intercom system.”
“What? Word?” Paradise was impressed. “Yeah, I figured a way to jack the intercom system up so I could call you.” Paradise slumped down on the floor and held her heart. They might have been eight. But they were in love—Brooklyn style.
The night she met Keith the night was denim blue and the street lamps that lit up the compound had a Narnia kind of magic to it. They hung out in front of the building and Keith practiced balancing on his friend’s bike as Paradise sat between her friends shiny black knees and subjected herself to getting her hair corn-rowed. Although it was summer the trees seemed anemic and the kids could smell the rich smell of collard greens wafting out of someone’s encaged windows. He’d try to balance, succeed and then bike away.
“He likes you.” Yolanda said as she combed out a row of Paradise’s hair to braid.
“He is cute.” Paradise tried to give her voice that grown-up lilt to it, that Southern twang that she heard all the grown folks talk with. Keith rode back and attempted to balance on his bike again. He wore an oversized basketball shirt. His arms were skinny but already muscular. He had large eyes with sleepy eyelids. His hair was cut close to his head, with a shaved-in side part.
“Hey Paradise. Can I get your number?” If looks could kill he would have been dead on the spot. “What you want my telephone number for?” She was elated.
“Because—“ he spat the first word out all offended-like, “I want to call you.”
“Okay.” She smiled and he relaxed. She gave him her telephone number. Just then Poochie his friend rolled over like a bowling ball. “What you asking for her number for? You ain’t got no phone.” Strike. Keith rode away before anyone could see his cheeks red. Paradise hated Poochie for killing the vibe. Poochie was one of those Negroes who’s parents bought him all the latest gear and he just thought he owned shit.
“Why you don’t give me your telephone number pretty girl?”
“You? Puhleeze. You think you all that cause you be looking fly and all that. What I don’t understand is, if you looking so good and you got all that stuff, why your parents still living in the Projects?” Poochie looked at her like she was crazy. “Forget you girl. I ain’t got time for this this shit.
Keith called her. Keith called her. It was the only time the phone rang and when her mother passed her the phone, she picked it up it was him. The phone was full of static and she asked, “Kieth, where you calling me from?” Her father was passed out drunk on the couch and she didn’t have to worry about him hearing her cause he never heard anything while he was sleeping. Once Paradise threw a party in her room with all the kids in the building listening to music and the whole nine and he didn’t wake up one inch.
“From the intercom system.”
“What? Word?” Paradise was impressed. “Yeah, I figured a way to jack the intercom system up so I could call you.” Paradise slumped down on the floor and held her heart. They might have been eight. But they were in love—Brooklyn style.
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