A Final Farewell to Myrtle Avenue

a live, working piece

@nohoesneruda

October 2019

The bodega on the corner of Myrtle Avenue & Broadway ran an under the table illegal drug operation for about 6 years. From K2-laced marijuana cartridges to Afghan heroin, these Turkish lads gracefully blindfolded the 83rd precinct of the NYPD from the nature of their side hustle with delectable baklava and friendly, hospitable service.

A euphoric haze danced in front of our young friend’s eyes. He had successfully forced his way into Bushwick, despite the gentrified neighborhood’s rising rent prices and his lack of adequate income to even afford city rent. An opportunistic fellow with the great pleasure of a naive counterpart to jumpstart the move from their neighboring suburban hellscape of Long Island, Mark Martinez seemed to have landed squarely on his feet along the Brooklyn sidewalk.

Mark stepped off the stairs from the elevated train sporting his usual outfit of black jeans, a black leather jacket, a pair of Doc Martens and the aviator gas station sunglasses that fit his narrow face just right. A bona fide try hard, a pseudo-intellectual dumb fuck, and frankly…

an asshole. 

He jaywalks to the liquor store with a bounce in his step, where a crackhead stands squarely in front of the counter yelling at the old store owner.

An edible takes Mark’s head by his horns, his mind begins to flare off thoughts as the light refractions grow longer from the fluorescents

Crackhead McGee (for all intents & purposes) is still rambling in a shout about the prices of two 40 ounces he now waved violently amidst his wingspan. 

In reality, the lights had slowly dimmed with every night Mark stopped in for a different cheap whiskey or wine. Mark, however, now has his hand along his brow as if he were shielding his glassy, bloodshot eyes against a beating sun.

Crackhead McGee proceeds to smash the bottles he’d been contesting the cashier with, and storms out with a cloud of slurs in his path.

Mark, rattled by the noise, ditches his errand & bolts his Chuck Taylor’s out of the corner liquor store.

Met by a resounding northeastern thunderstorm, he runs across the busy street, dodging a biker and a family. Into his building, up 4 stairs, and into the kitchen.

***

The term “scatterbrained” is, well, one way to describe a mixed up mind…