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December
10th, 2001, I pass the wide picture window of
Farrell’s Bar, located at the corner of 16th
Street and Prospect Park West, in Windsor Terrace,
Brooklyn, as I do nearly every day. Farrell’s
enjoys the dubious honor of being the largest
retail outlet for Budweiser beer in the United
States – the single tavern that sells the
most cold Bud in the US of A. A couple of oldsters,
faded men in baggy gabardine pants, had gotten
started early that morning, and they leaned against
the curved, dark wood of the bar, watching the
tube and smoking. The bar is quiet in daylight,
but evenings, the place is packed, as fathers,
sons, uncles, nephews, brothers, pals and various
hangers-on knock back tall Styrofoam ‘go’
cups of Bud and heckle the game on the bar’s
TV.
Farrell’s
is a neighborhood institution, beloved since the
Great Depression, when Dennis Farrell, Senior,
first flung open its doors to offer the working-class
clientele nickel beer and salt sticks. The doors
haven’t been closed too often since, save
for the early hours of Sunday mornings, when the
Farrell’s regulars reconvene three blocks
down Prospect Park West at Holy Name of Jesus
Roman Catholic Church, for Mass. Dutiful fathers
trailing flocks of shiny, scrubbed kids head out
to church, then reappear mid-afternoon at the
bar, solo.
It’s
a man’s bar, smelling of booze and sweat
and smoke. No tables, just a long polished hardwood
bar and a pressed-tin ceiling. Women are officially
welcome, a hard-earned triumph of the late 60s,
yet it’s a man’s place, a testosterone
oasis in a world of women, families, and domestic
obligations.
Windsor
Terrace, historically home to generations of Irish
and Italians climbing out of immigrant uncertainty
into the stolid middle class, has given New York
City legions of teachers, civil servants, and
uniformed service workers. Generations of cops
and firefighters have been born and reared in
Windsor Terrace; their mothers and grandmothers
and aunts still live in the neighborhood, even
though "the boys" may have moved on
to one of two Islands, Staten or Long. Some of
the boys stay, too, and live in brick or limestone
rowhouses across the street from their parents,
raising their own kids in the shelter of three
generations of free advice and free babysitting.
I’ve
lived in Windsor Terrace for twelve years now,
and as far as the Farrell’s crew is concerned,
I’m still a newbie. But I’m not new
enough to miss a change in the Farrell’s
landscape, and as I passed the window, I saw a
hand-lettered sign, block letters in careful black
marker. "Farrell’s will be closed for
business on December 13," the first line
read, slanting down and to the right as the letters
crammed together. "To attend the memorial
Mass for Captain Vincent Brunton, NYFD,"
announced the second line. The rest of the sign
was blank.
I
had heard of Vinnie Brunton, son of Windsor Terrace,
all-around great guy, fire captain and weekend
bartender at Farrell’s for the past 19 years.
Everyone had heard of Vinnie, or knew him. Vinnie
lived on 16th Street with his wife and a slew
of kids, never did leave the neighborhood. Vinnie’s
company went into the World Trade Center on September
11th. He never came back. Now, three months later,
the time had come to let him go. The Mass was
called for 11 AM on the 13th.
I
kept walking along the avenue, past the little
strip of shops that look like a UN tribute to
capitalism: the Chinese take-out, the Japanese
restaurant, the bagel store (with its Irish owners),
the Korean grocery, Pushpa’s candy store
and newsstand, Raj’s pharmacy. On the next
block, a small crowd milled around the double
glass doors of Frank Smith, the local funeral
home. Vinnie was being waked there until the Mass
and legions of firefighters in uniform had come
out to pay respects. Three hook-and-ladder trucks
sat idling outside, blocking traffic. One unit
had come from Red Hook; another from Flatbush;
the third from Canarsie, each crammed with men.
As
I watched, two elderly ladies ventured off the
curb. Were they sisters? Cousins? Arms linked
in the easy intimacy of what looked like lifelong
familiarity, they teetered off the curb and cautiously
stepped into the street, leaning forward to scan
for traffic that might be hidden by the firefighters’
rigs. Two firefighters half-sat on one rig’s
bumper, slouching against the truck’s chrome
grille. They saw the ladies look, then hesitate.
One bounded to his feet. "You ladies need
a hand?" he asked, smoothing the corners
of his walrus mustache. "How’s about
I help youse out crossin’ the street?"
The ladies, flustered by the attentions of this
handsome young firefighter, looked at each other,
unsure. Like Maurice Chevalier in rubber boots
and a fireproof jacket, he offered one arm to
each of them, flamboyant and generous. Charmed,
the ladies relented, and the unlikely trio crossed
the busy street.
"Thank
you," they called from the far curb.
"Nothin’
at all, ladies" sang out the firefighter.
"Glad to help out." He went back to
the bumper and sat down again, bumming a cigarette
from his friend. All in a day’s work.
Three
days later, I made it my business to be out on
the street before Vinnie’s Mass. The day
was gray and dry, with a light wind that occasionally
kicked up little eddies of scrap paper in the
intersections. I zipped up my coat and headed
over to Prospect Park West.
Prospect
Park West runs for more than a mile, along the
length of Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, but as
far as Windsor Terrace is concerned, the avenue
begins at Bartel Pritchard Square, oddly a traffic
circle and war memorial to the neighborhood’s
lost war dead. Vinnie’s family was waiting
there, and would proceed – with an official
escort – along the four-block length, from
Bartel Pritchard to Holy Name.
Eight
hook and ladder trucks were parked end to end
across the avenue, one pair at each of its four
intersections. Each rig had extended its ladder
its full height – towering above the squat
brick storefronts – until the ladders met,
high above. From each pair of ladders flew an
American flag, fluttering in the morning’s
weak breeze. Not penny-ante plastic flags –
these were the Real McCoy, big bright banners
spilling down from the sky. The flag on Windsor
Place, a massive 20 x 40 feet, was anchored to
the rigs with nylon guy wires, making an impromptu
striped portal, a kind of flimsy but heartfelt
shelter for Vinnie Brunton’s family and friends.
No
cars or buses drove on the avenue. By order of
the brass at the 78th Precinct, parking was forbidden
on Prospect Park West on the 13th – no business
traffic whatsoever, that morning. Instead, people
lined the streets, and stood where the cars should
have been. Thousands of firefighters and rescue
workers lined the long block of Prospect Park
West facing the church. Lined up ten deep, they
stood in the chill cold, most in dress uniforms
– single-breasted, double-breasted, gold
buttons and silver, braid trim in canary yellow
or chrome, white hats, blue hats, blue shirts,
white shirts, black shirts and black ties and
white gloves everywhere. Some firefighters were
in full regalia – boots, asbestos pants,
heavy striped coats – and others were off-duty,
in jeans and NYFD windbreakers. They lined up
in rows, ten deep and a block wide, intimately
familiar with the bitter routine of saying goodbye.
I
found a place on the corner, next to a Fire Chief
from Malverne, Long Island, and two of his men.
Nearby, I saw the school crossing guard and the
Mexican boy who helps out at the grocery; we nodded
to each other as we waited. An elderly nun in
a brown polyester habit squeezed past the crossing
guard to get a better view.
At
11 AM, the procession began.
The
cortege led off with a police car, lights flashing,
and two motorcycle cops, crawling along the street’s
double-yellow center line at a walking pace, the
cops scooting their feet along on the ground to
steady their slow-going bikes. They passed under
the large flag and continued down the avenue.
After the cops came three firefighters, walking
in a halting step-pause, step-pause.
Each
of the three men carried the only surviving evidence
of Vinnie’s firefighting life: One held his
white captain’s hat, brass insignia glittering.
Another held his spare duty helmet, coal black
and decorated with a gold insignia, a cross between
a hood ornament and a miniature bulkhead wraith.
The firefighter in the center carried an American
flag, folded into a tight triangle, his broad
hands knuckle-white, clasping the flag tightly
from above and below.
As
the three men walked past, the crowd turned very
quiet. Suddenly, simply, the loss was sharp and
clear. The man whose hats were walked past, on
display, was gone, for good. None of the three
honor guard looked left or right as they walked.
Charged with the responsibility of leading Vinnie’s
processional, they took a visual bead on the church,
their destination, and followed the invisible
thread between their eyes and the sanctuary.
Next
came Vinnie’s rig – from Ladder Company
105, his house – laden with flowers. Day-glo
shamrocks made of dyed green carnations, giant
wreaths, huge sprays of gladioli dripping yards
of ivy, but no coffin. No body. Two guys rode
on the back of the rig, full dress uniform, white
hats and gloves blinding against the gleaming
red enamel. They stood as rigid as dolls, unflinching
and impassive, and I soon divined Rule Number
One at a firefighter’s funeral: No Eye Contact.
I
scanned the faces closest to me. One by one, the
men stared ahead, speaking little. I tried to
engage their eyes, tried to connect and thank
them with my eyes. Nothing doing. They remained
in the middle distance, their focus inward despite
wide-open eyes. No contact at all; the blue wall
intact, unbreachable. Maybe it is simply more
than they can bear, this assault of the emotions
from a well-intentioned but clumsy public. Maybe
they just want to get out, be done with the memorials
and burials and body counts. Whatever the case,
they are present but remote, cocooned in their
silence and unwavering gaze.
The
hook and ladder rig is followed by an antique
fire truck, cherry red, chrome shined a blinding
silver. Covered in more flowers and draped in
purple and black bunting, it rolls past on fat
rubber tires. Two rows of men walk in formation
behind it, empty-handed pallbearers. They are
followed by a battalion of firefighters, hundreds
of men from units across the city and beyond.
I count eleven rows of twelve men each, but lose
track in the sea of uniforms and staring eyes.
Still, they march under the flags and on the way
to the church, in lock step, each staring out,
private in this public setting.
From
the first, we’ve heard the sighing of the
bagpipes and the throb of the drum corps, and
as they approach, I steal a sideways glance at
the Chief from Malverne. Even he won’t look
at me as I stand there sniffling, digging in my
pockets for tissues. It’s as if they can’t,
anymore – can’t give any more to total
strangers, even strangers standing right next
to them, sobbing in the street. They have to bury
their brothers, honor the memories, and move forward.
No more time for tears. None that they let the
street see, anyway.
The
pipe and drum corps get closer now, and as they
approach the flag on Windsor Place, they stop
their music. The sudden absence of sound stabs
the air out of my lungs like a jab in the gut.
After the shrill piping, the yearning, the music
– quiet, except for the steady tattoo of
the snare drums, all draped in black and purple.
The drummers drum through the fabric. The sound
is much less muted than you’d expect. Their
faces look worn. How many funerals, memorials,
masses, prayer services? How much can a man stand?
The drummers mark time, long enough to see the
lines in their faces, the tracery of burst capillaries
on one man’s purplish nose, the rheumy eyes.
To a man, they stare forward, stone cold eyes
admitting no one, revealing nothing.
Vinnie’s
family follow the drummers, walking 10 across,
arms linked. In the center of the first row of
family is Vinnie’s wife, now his widow, flanked
by a son as tall as a man but with the soft face
of boyhood, and by a half-dozen other kids with
what looks to be the same face, stamped from kid
to kid in varying scales. Two high-school age
boys walk on the perimeter, each in ROTC regalia,
nametags lettered "Brunton" above their
hearts. Throngs of cousins follow, arms wrapped
around shoulders, waists, trailing kids. There’s
even a Brunton drag queen, easily 6'3" in
his stocking feet, towering over the elderly relatives.
Resplendent in all black and sling-back pumps,
with chestnut tresses to his hips, he reaches
far down to cradle the elbow of the aged lady
on his left, supporting her progress on the asphalt
roadbed. No one in the family looks down. No one
looks away, and they don’t make eye contact,
either. Row after row, the extended family file
under the flag, among neighborhood people who
came out to honor the memory, to honor the men,
or simply to stand up for someone lost.
The
family passes, slowly, approaching the block where
the firefighters have been waiting in silence.
Down the street, a long block away from where
I stand, a shout goes up: "Salute!"
Suddenly, like the sound of a thousand wings beating,
all the firemen across the road snap to a salute.
The firemen next to me salute, too. So does the
cop minding the barricade, the school crossing
guard, the retired guys on the corner. A lone
bagpipe starts the opening measures of Amazing
Grace. I break down, bawling into my gloves. The
nun next to me, chattering away, tries to console
me, "Ah, darlin’, haven’t you come
to some of these before? I was at Timmy’s
last week, and his brother’s the week before.
Didja know this one? He used to barbeque the hot
dogs every year, this one. Ten years now, he’d
barbeque the dogs for me," but rude, I turn
away, I can’t hear about how many she’s
gone to. This moment, the moment of remembering
Vinnie, remembering the ideal (for I did not know
the man) pulls me like a giant vortex, and I don’t
want to get free. It is epic, heroic, blinding.
Overwhelming, and inspiring. I love this town
– I love the heart of the place, the people,
the life, the piss-and-vinegar vitality. I look
through the men, searching their faces, and see
a sea of New York – whiter than most of NY,
to be sure, but still a sea of ages, tempers,
lives.
Who
am I? I’m a nobody New Yorker, but I’m
everybody, part of the same sea. Working Mom,
three kids in public schools, an émigré
to New York whose youthful rapture for the city
has matured, over the intervening decades, into
the ripeness of real love, scars and all. At a
moment like this, when the pipers stop playing,
when the fire trucks pass – when the people
stand up and rally, heart first, in a city sick
with sadness and overfull with pride – I
love this town. I want to sing out, Look at these
guys! I want to kiss them all, thank them for
their sacrifice, for being my city’s spine.
Shortly
after Amazing Grace, the fireman stand down, and
the street quickly becomes a river of men, roaring
with the sounds of their voices, the rough guffaws
of forced laughter, the percussive back-slap and
shoulder-clap of men who are having way too many
of this particular brand of reunion. The old guys
geeze by, shaking hands with the younger uniformed
guys. The ranks break into knots of conversation,
and the firemen soon drift away, to the next fire,
the next call, the next day of memorial and death.
Farrell’s
stays closed all day; the firefighters drink instead
at the VFW post around the corner, or at another
local bar, Rhythm ‘n’ Booze, with tables
and a decent jukebox. The next morning, Farrell’s
opens for business. The lettered sign is gone,
replaced by a photo of Vinnie, grinning in a sharp
dress uniform. The day bartender sweeps sawdust
over the threshold onto the sidewalk as a crony
gives him free pointers.
"How
‘bout that Vinnie?" the day man says,
leaning on his broom.
"He
was somethin’ else, that kid. Somethin’
else."

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