The Edge Becomes the Center by DW Gibson

Author:DW Gibson [GIBSON, D W]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: SOC026000; SOC026030
ISBN: 9781468311877
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2015-05-12T04:00:00+00:00

16.

Ephraim sends a text message suggesting we meet at “17 Irving.” I look up the address on Google Maps to get the cross streets and I see that there is actually a coffee shop bearing the name of the address just east of Union Square Park in Manhattan. I arrive ten minutes early and order a coffee, so that I can stake claim to one of the tables, for which there is fierce competition. Ten minutes goes by, then half an hour, and I try calling Ephraim. He doesn’t answer but texts back that he’s outside the building. I tell him I’ve got a table inside. This confuses him, which leads to a frantic series of texts over the next ninety seconds, at which point I realize that the 17 Irving Ephraim has in mind is an address in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Of course. Google has yet to learn that Manhattan is not the default—and I didn’t question its assumption.

I bolt out the door, and as I go over the Manhattan Bridge on the subway, Ephraim texts me again saying he had to leave that building. Now he’s at another building and he sends along that address. This happens a couple of times as I explore various subway connections, until I’m finally in the right place at the right time—and at a familiar address: I see Ephraim sitting in his car, which is parked in the long driveway of one mTkalla Keaton, also known as Martin, also known as TK. I walk around to the driver’s side window, which is down. Ephraim is on the phone but interrupts his call briefly and asks me:

You don’t care about the smoking, do you?

I note that he is not, in fact, smoking and tell him I don’t have a problem with it.

Good, get in.

I hop over to the passenger seat and Ephraim turns the car on. As we pull into the street, the phone conversation plays out over the speaker system so I can hear mTkalla’s voice on the other end. Ephraim is getting mTkalla—he calls him Martin—prices from his floor guy. The connection is inconsistent and they keep talking over each other in fragmented sentences. They give up and a few moments pass while Ephraim looks to be contemplating his next call, his finger hovering just over his dash-mounted smartphone. Suddenly he asks:

So what do you need from me?

Caught off guard, I stammer through a request to hear what it’s like to be a landlord in so many evolving Brooklyn neighborhoods. Ephraim nods and stares out the window, as if he lacks the will or energy to answer such a broad question. So I keep talking. I ask about his family. His father fled Iran during the Islamic Revolution and moved to Israel where he met Ephraim’s mother, who had arrived around the same time from Russia. The two married and moved their young family to the United States when Ephraim was four or five—he doesn’t remember, exactly, or maybe he doesn’t want to remember.

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