How fire destroys neighborhoods

To the editor:

(re: “Flames refuse to spare apartments, businesses,” Nov. 4)

I was there when Bailey Avenue burned — the grocery and the laundromat, lunch counter Sabor, Tililá and takeout Chinese.

I was there with my neighbors, there in the dark. There with my son, scattered on the street like broken glass.

I live up the block, and we watched it all burn. Watched the firefighters standing on flimsy roofs, wrestling with the flames that rose from below, and rose red in the black night.

We watched not because it was Bailey that burned, it was our home on fire. These were the places we knew, the places we’d visit each day. The guy who knew your order by just looking at you. The place where you could whisper your secret numbers. Of cigarettes and sandwiches. Of beggars and believers. Of whiskey smiles and milk.

Rest here and watch your towels spin dry. Drink here and try the appetizer. Stand here and wait for your order. All gone now. All ghosts now. But if you listen hard, their voices still welcome you.

“Spare some change? Spare some change?”

“Don’t worry about it. I got you. How much?”

“Light and sweet.”

“Usual, Rob? Soup or soda?”

“Newports and what I got here.”

“Lemme getta Mega and my scratch-offs.”

“Table inside?”

“Ketchup? Cheese?”

“I need quarters. Ten, right?”

“Spare some change? Spare some change?”

But now it’s all gone. And ‘midst rumors and ruminations ‘bout why it all happened, all that’s left are the dark windows, closed eyes. And now, there’s no place to go.

Gone now the grocery.

Gone the lunch counter.

Gone now the takeout Chinese.

Gone now Tililá.

Gone like some smoke in the breeze.

Rob Eisman

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