by Triss Stein
It was Lisa, writing a series about changing cultural institutions. Or something like that. She started with, “Grab your phone this second! You need to record this number.”
She was at the Brooklyn Museum, covering an exhibit. She was not more than a ten-minute walk from my house. She overheard a conversation. A key employee there had just been poached by the National Gallery.
“Call,” she ordered. “Right now. Bye.”
Unnerved though I was by then about job-hunting, I made the call. Just like that, I was scheduled for an interview the day after next.
My boss, Matt, sat me down to role-play an interview. He edited my resumé, too. Curators I’d worked with sent an animated good luck card. One of them made a call to a friend who worked there, scoping out the inside story on the job.
I dressed up again in my one good suit. I carried copies of my resumé. The letter confirming that my degree would be awarded in May. A list of references. Copies of my curriculum vitae, too, the academic version of a resumé. And just for a little extra luck, I carried a note from Joe folded into a tiny square and tucked under my watch band over my beating pulse.
I was glad to have it there as I walked into the museum. The building alone is kind of scary, a massive white stone monument to turn-of-the-last century civic prestige. It is meant to impress. It succeeds.
I was walking into a major institution that would be the star of the cultural firmament in any city that did not also have the Metropolitan Museum, the Cooper-Hewitt, the Museum of Modern Art, the Frick, and a dozen others.
All I could see in the interview room was a committee of suits, serious people looking like serious executives. I reminded myself that I was not an imposter. I could do this job. In fact I was the perfect person for it. I touched Joe’s note and squared my shoulders.
They asked me if I was familiar with the museum, especially the significant American art collection and the historic rooms. Thank goodness I could say yes. They asked me about my dissertation and how it fit with their mission to serve all of Brooklyn. They asked me for my ideas. Thank goodness I had some.
Over the next month, there were many more such interviews, each one with scarier people further up the food chain.
To my astonishment, I ended up with an offer to start the first week of June. Two years, working as the history expert as they redesigned a whole floor. Health insurance. A paycheck. Paid vacation. And a job title, an important step forward and upward in my career. Dad said, “Congratulations! You have finally joined the grownup world.”
I won’t lie. That’s exactly how I felt.
Chapter Twenty-six
One night in early May I stood with Joe on the roof deck of the Navy Yard movie studio, admiring the lit-up Manhattan skyline across the river. It was breathtaking as always.
It was nothing like the last time I was here, for Michael Conti’s memorial service. Tonight the music was loud enough to destroy brain cells. It was a party from the metallic balloons to the colored lights turning the dance floor pink, then purple, then orange. Young people were dressed in their sparkly, neon-toned best, trying to behave like very cool adults. There were enough actual adults attending to make sure it didn’t slip over into misbehavior.
This all happened because the management offered an apology to the attendees at Conti’s service. It took the form of a substantial gift card. Did I jump on that? Of course. My sixteen-year-old was all smiles tonight at her birthday party.
The DJ’s patter got everyone up and dancing. I noticed that the boys were finally catching up with the girls in height but the girls were still far ahead on the style meter. A few of them were already far ahead of anyone I knew. How did they dance in those platform sandals?
There was the usual drama in the ladies room with weeping girls and comforting friends. There was the usual slow dancing in the dark corners. There were some balloon stomping contests, too.
Any lingering evil from Michael Conti’s life and death was blown right out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Of course the most special guest was Jared, the boyfriend from Riverdale. I watched Chris dance with him, and suddenly wondered how deep this puppy love went. I had tolerated it with well-concealed amusement, and so had his parents. Now, tonight, whenever the music went all soft and yearning, Chris and Jared were very entwined. Was this something to worry about? What did I need to say to her? He was a nice boy, truly. But still a boy, as Chris was still a girl.
There would be other nights to worry about Chris. For now, Joe had whisked me on to the quiet roof, keeping me warm in the river breeze. We were together and we were happy. I was slowly getting reacquainted with that emotion.
I just enjoyed his arms around me, and looking over the party scene.
Darcy and her husband were dancing and sizing up the location for some future wedding. Leary, his presence a surprise, was deep in conversation with Lisa. I’d done a good day’s work when I brought her to meet him. She thought he was a hoot and he was happy to show off his journalistic wisdom.
I thought briefly of Mrs. Pastore. She was touched by her invitation, and knit Chris a scarf, but she politely declined. Sal had died that spring, and she was not ready for a party. Her heartfelt mourning was the equator to the North Pole of Michael Conti’s ungrieving women.
Of course my dad was there. I had told him sternly that he was not to embarrass Chris by dancing, so he settled for tending bar. The kids actually seemed to enjoy his elaborate no-alcohol concoctions and corny jokes. And Chris pulled him out on the floor for a birthday dance after all.
I would be graduating next week. Joe had bought me the whole elaborate regalia as a graduation gift. Dignified navy and gold. Velvet bands on the sleeves of the robe. Elaborate hood. I hadn’t yet figured out how to wear it. I felt ridiculous.
I felt proud.
A week after that, the new job would start. I was still deeply intimidated by this leap to the big-time, but I had a bound copy of my dissertation on my desk, reminding me every day that I was prepared.
Something else had happened, too. In the aftermath of Michael Conti’s murder, I had a chance to write a small article about the Navy Yard for a small local paper. I dashed it off and forgot about it.
Two months later, an astonishing message from a book editor popped up in my mail. He had read the article. Would I be interested in discussing a book?
I read the message twice, and then read it again. It didn’t make sense. I explained I would eventually try to turn the dissertation into a scholarly book but not right away.
He wrote, “Call me.”
Brooklyn is a red-hot topic, he said. Neighborhood change is hot. Everyone is talking about it. Not your dissertation. A general audience book. You have a relatable writing style.
I had no idea what that meant, but we met and he convinced me to write a few sample chapters. All you have to do is be yourself, he said. And get it done pronto. The moment for this is right now. Yesterday.
It would be a new set of pressures, but I agreed that I’d give it a shot. That famous adopted New Yorker, Yogi Berra, once said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” And that’s just what I was trying to do.
I looked out at the lights blazing away against the night sky. I looked at Joe. I thought about all that would be waiting for me tomorrow. Tonight? I drank up the last of my wine and led Joe onto the dance floor.
Afterword
Since all my books combine history with fiction, I like to include an explanation of which is which.
Brooklyn Wars is easy. All the characters and the family history are entirely fictional, but Philomena’s diary was partly inspired by real accounts.
Everything about the Brooklyn Navy Yard history is as factual as I could make it. I had the great luck to find a doctoral dissertation on the closing of the Yard, a terrific source for the politics and conflicts of the
time.
The property that used to be the Navy Yard is changing so rapidly, like much of Brooklyn, that the description of it “now” is already somewhat outdated. I’ve done my best to capture some of the issues and atmosphere, compressed for storytelling purposes. There is a real movie studio there. I haven’t named it, because I described it for story purposes rather than for accuracy.
The building at the gates in the first chapter is real (Building 92), has terrific exhibits, and is the meeting place for tours of the Yard. I recommend a visit and a tour.
Some of the books I found most helpful were Lorraine Diehl’s Over Here!, Kenneth Jackson’s WWII& NYC, Thomas F. Berner’s The Brooklyn Navy Yard (Images of America series) and the chapter “Torch Songs” in Brooklyn: A State of Mind, edited by Michael W. Robbins. John Bartlestone’s beautiful photographs in his book, The Brooklyn Navy Yard, were inspiring.
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