Brooklyn Collects
 A column and illustrations by Ryn Gargulinski
Ryn's Archives: With
Hopes of Candied Apples and A Cyclone Ride, Ground
Hog Day, Order in Brooklyn Court, Dear Mom, Merry Season's Greetings from Brooklyn, Brooklyn Votes,
Spooky Stuff: A Brooklyn Halloween, Rotting Fruit Store, Summer Time in Brooklyn, Graduating from Brooklyn College, Biking in Brooklyn, Nature
Calls, Brooklyn Answers, Why I live in Bensonhurst,
Bill Bradley in Sunset Park, New Cat, Brunch with
Mom
 When I saw the Salvation Army truck
parked in the middle of Bay 35th Street around the corner from my job, I thought I had
just found heaven. I was drawn to it like the Leprechaun towards his rainbow's end
pot of gold. I sauntered into the street, briefly blocking a beeping red Honda, to
get a glimpse of the treasures inside. As they were loading up an oversize black and
white gaudy cushioned chair with a wicker base (one of those hideous creations one used to
find on screened porches) I wondered a) why I was bothering to look inside
when there was no way the drivers would go against Salvation Army code and let me have
anything right off the flatbed and b) what it would take to hijack a truck like that.
I have always loved junk. Not that the Salvation Army is a place for junk, mind you,
although my boyfriend would heartily disagree. But used stuff. Things people
throw or give away or accidentally lose on the street, especially the streets of Brooklyn.
The thrift shops and the flea markets are just an added extra (for a run-down on
some of them, see Summer Fun column) but there is a treasure trove of junk to be had right
down the lane -- or even on the boardwalk. In fact, I continue to rue the day I was
biking by and didn't stop to pick up the purple/toy/robot-looking thing I saw another
woman happily walk away with on my way back.
One rule to remember with junk is -- there is no way back. If something in the
street strikes your fancy, you have to grab it quick. Already I have let an old 12'
wooden bench, a shelving unit that didn't look too shabby and something that could have
been iguana eggs pass me by. I was not about to do the same for the cracked
ceramic rose figurine, Volume 29 (United through Zoroastrianism) of the Encyclopedia
Britannica series or the Jolly Roger skull on a broken keychain fare the same. Nor
did my boyfriend and I mind almost getting hit by a car on the way home a few minutes ago
to retrieve what looked like wooden dinosaur parts from the middle of our block.
 Some of the junk I find
definitely screams Brooklyn, debris that could not be found in anywhere else in the world.
Like the Nathan's yellow sun visor I sent anonymously to my dad in Michigan (as if
he would have no idea where it came from). I have also found this borough has
been the most fruitful for the ongoing washer project I began last year. I gather up
washers, keys and other metal objects with a hole in them which I bring home to my
boyfriend. He then strings them on a metal chain I had found near 18th Avenue (which
is now almost full) and hangs it by our living room windows. With all the glory this
collection brings into the room, I am tempted to contact the Brooklyn Museum of Art --
especially after seeing them open the "Broooklyn Collects" exhibit. I
wonder if my window washer treatment would qualify?
Living under the B train tracks also has its advantages for junk gathering. It's not
a major problem with falling debris like it used to be, a fact I can proudly assert in
part to my boss's efforts, but there it still has its share of train-like junk on and
around 86th Street. When it's under construction -- which lately has been
always -- there is the added bonus of these U-shaped plastic colored things we have lining
a glass globe in our living room, O-shaped things in white you normally don't see near
train tracks, and occasional tool belt or heavy-duty lug-nut driver which my boyfriend
says I cannot take even though it's RIGHT THERE in the middle of the sidewalk and the
workers have all gone to lunch. O, yes, I have also found a circular thing that
looks like part of a train wheel or a propelling unit from a small submarine. And a
child's suitcase stamped with the name "Connie." (Please note: I do not
think the suitcase came from the train tracks but a pigeon, who WAS on the overhead line,
shit on me as I bent down to pick it up.)
The contents of the Connie suitcase ended up being an nostalgic-type find. It
contained documentation from 1954 car insurance along with baby shoes and two plaid hats
which perhaps belonged to none other than Connie. Other fine hauls included a turtle
necklace around Avenue O on a gray stone chain that has since broke at the clasp.
That has become one of those finds that end up costing you since it is currently at the
jewelers getting repaired. I also found a couple of crumpled up singles in front of
the Laundromat on Bath Avenue. My money find, however, cannot compete with the $20s
my boyfriend once found in the parking lot of a diner that shall remain nameless, since
his mother spent the entire meal staring over her shoulder in a panic as if finding lost
money and then keeping it was a felony. But my best find by far has to be the
Brooklyn Street sign.
 I found this main catch one day
after a particularly heavy storm that was just finishing up. Anything lying in the street
becomes fair game and it truly becomes a battle of the wills as to who saw it first.
And believe me, this one was almost a draw as me and an ambling man spied it,
umbrellas flapping, at the exact same millisecond. I was one breath quicker to the
sign, where I promptly grasped it with both hands, throwing my umbrella by the wayside,
while the man's sighs echoed down xxx Avenue (I couldn't tell what street -- since there
was no longer a sign...). This sign has been by far my landmark find...and it still
sits proudly wherever my boyfriend stashed it the last time he cleared out the living
room.
This vocation is more than a hobby -- it's a way of life. It's a calling. And
believe me, I can hear it calling me 87 blocks away. In fact, I was walking with a
friend of mine just recently and, as I veered out of my way to stoop over and pick up a
red thing that resembled a spool, he commented "You must have been a very difficult
child." (Most people I am jaunting along with are usually polite/confused
enough to refrain from asking questions when I stop midstride and retrieve a piece of
debris.) I had to remind him that I was born and raised in the suburbia of Troy
where there essentially is no junk. So this stuff (after 12 years) is still sorta
new to me. It still holds the fascination of, say, hidden Easter eggs or finding
money in the pocket of a jacket you haven't worn since last July. What can I say?
Another man's Brooklyn junk is -- another man's Brooklyn junk in my house.
And I didn't even BEGIN to tell you about my found photos on Bay Parkway project..... |
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