It was shortly after New Year’s Day, January 1996 that I slid the cashier’s check to Lloydie’s sister. With that one action, it was crystal clear in my mind that the clock was running down on my current life. I’d long outgrown the studio above PanStar. The kids were on their way. And the block was getting hot.
I decided I’d give myself a full two years to get my house in order, literally and figuratively. I wanted to take my time renovating the property over on Lincoln Road- this was a project I’d never dreamed of having the opportunity to undertake and I wanted to get it right. The house was beautiful, in a prime area, but it was rundown and needed to be built back up.
But the more pressing issue was that I had no one to install within the four walls of my little monk’s cell- and PanStar was on the brink of needing twenty-four-hour protection. For the moment, the part of Nostrand where we were located was still fairly quiet, more or less safe for legitimate merchants to conduct business without feeling threatened by outside forces. Weed spots and after-hours joints were still able to exist without too much heat from the police and collective contributions from business owners kept the B&E crews and stick-up kids at bay. Neighborhood violence was mostly contained to a small pocket of side streets where kids would roll dice, sell some marginal weight and occasionally light someone’s ass up over the usual rudebwoy business.
Regardless, things were starting to feel shaky out there, and a warehouse full of product couldn’t be left unattended for more than a minute, if that. Someone needed to be a hands-on presence. And for the meantime, I was it.
Gaps in staffing, a house to renovate and the imminent arrival of Mundo and his shadow. Over the first few months of 1996, these three themes rolled themselves through my mind for hours on end. I started to wake up with a migraine every single morning. By April, I was feeling unstable. I needed to talk it out.
So, I got into my Land Rover and headed over to Clarendon Collision.
As soon as I turned onto Utica, I remembered what Prentiss had said to me, way back in 1990.
They’re coming for us, Hopeton. Just you watch. Five years from now and you’re not gonna recognize this place. Any of it.
Prentiss had been right. This stretch of the avenue used to be inhabited by locally owned autobody shops, tow truck lots and Jamaican carry-out. But now it was littered with fast-food drive-throughs, Jiffy Lube franchise outposts and grimly hulking storage facilities. The residential houses were all in various stages of cosmetic upgrade. Gentrification was starting to make its presence known.
Comfortingly, the changing of the guard wasn’t as blatant over on Prentiss's block. But that's because he was part of a coalition of owner-operators, all actively embedded in the work they did and the community that supported it. For the moment at least, they had no interest in giving in to big business and out-of-town interlopers.
Prentiss’s garage was busier than I’d ever seen it- Boombastic was blaring from the speakers, every repair bay was occupied. Spring fever had their customers hyped to get back on the road. I stopped in the cashier’s office to inquire as to the bigga boss’s whereabouts.
“He stepped out for a bit- should be back in about an hour,” the guy behind the counter told me.
I decided to take a drive over to my new neighborhood. May as well kill some time, see if I could learn anything new over by that part of town.
The second I parked the Land Rover in my driveway I saw the lady in the house next door crack the front door and peek her head out. I smiled and waved as I climbed out of my truck. She came and stood on her porch. I walked over towards her and introduced myself.
My new neighbor was a solidly built woman who appeared to be in her mid-50s. I easily pegged her accent as Jamaican, most likely from St. Elizabeth. She did not offer up her name.
“Are you the one who bought the house?” my neighbor asked. “Are you moving in here now?”
I confirmed that I was, indeed, the new owner and that I was about to begin extensive renovations on the entire property.
“I hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience,” I said.
“As long as it helps raise our property values,” she replied. “We’ve been here since 1978 and I’ve watched this block go up and down, up and down.” She made an undulating movement with her left hand. “I just want it to go up again, before I go on to heaven.”
“I am going to do my best to restore it to its former glory,” I promised.
“Amen to that,” she replied. And then she gave me her name, Sonia Campbell.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Sonia,” I said. “Next time you see this car in the driveway, you’ll know it’s me just stopping by to check on things. I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m about to start construction.”
I turned to go, then stopped and asked her if she could recommend a good restaurant nearby.
“What’s the best Jamaican spot right around here?” I asked. I was in the mood for curry goat.
“I don’t know,” she replied, a bit curtly. “I only eat my own cooking.”
I laughed. It sounded like something my mother would say.
Miss Sonia shrugged and added, “But when my son gets home tonight, I'll ask him what he likes. You can stop by next time and I'll let you know.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon. It was very nice meeting you.”
Then I left Miss Sonia’s yard, and headed, on foot, in the direction of Flatbush Avenue. Might as well check out Prospect Park. I’d heard that there was an established group of local cricket clubs that practiced over by the Picnic House, and I wanted to see if I could scope any of them out.
The Picnic House was a twenty-minute walk. The route inside the park had me meandering in a zig zag fashion along the edge of a minor lake, across several small footbridges and past a waterfall, towards the western edge of the park. I could hear the crack of the bat as I approached.
Cricket was something I’d discovered when I was in my twenties, after I returned to Jamaica from Cornwall. With nothing to hold me in Kingston, I’d made my way up to Content Gap, my childhood refuge from the hot Habana summers. My aunt’s house was not very far from the Army barracks, and on weekends soldiers would often head to the local sports field to ferret out a pick-up game against the locals. At some point, someone thought to ask me to fill a hole in the line-up- deep midwicket. From then on, I was a cricketer- and it was something I looked forward to resuming once I took up residency on Lincoln Road. I needed a leisure-time activity.
I wanted to enjoy my future.
And I knew I’d feel settled in my new neighborhood. I’d be trading up for more trees, bigger buildings, less racial tension. Better food. And at the end of the day, that’s all life was really about.
I returned to Lincoln Road at around four p.m., surprised at how much time I’d spent in the park. The neighborhood was quite beautiful in the waning sunlight. As soon as I caught sight of my house I felt at peace.
Once at my front door, I deactivated the recently installed industrial grade alarm system and stepped inside.
I did a quick walk around, just to make sure all the windows were still locked tight and the doors looked secure. I switched on lights in some of the rooms. And while I took care of these little tasks, I paused in each space, checking the vibes. Everything felt on point to me. Even in its distressed state, the house felt like a home.
I spent about ten minutes inside then locked the place up, got into the Land Rover and returned to Clarendon Collision.
“He hasn’t returned still,” the guy in the front office said as soon as I stepped up to the counter.
This was the first time in memory that Prentiss hadn’t been available when I’d needed him.
“Have him give me a call when he resurfaces,” I requested. “Let him know it’s time sensitive.”
I let my mind wander as I drove back to Crown Heights. Security and manpower issues would have to be tabled for the time being. I let my thoughts drift back to the Lincoln Road house. For someone who’d never expected to acquire anything more than a basic, functional dwelling, the idea of renovating a property of this size seemed beyond daunting. I had no idea how to begin.
But then I remembered- Téo and Lali had spent years getting their Clinton Avenue property in shape. “It’s taken me almost a decade and all of my savings to get it to a place that Lali considers ‘marginally acceptable,’ and even at this point we’re nowhere near finished,” Téo had complained to me fairly recently.
I decided I’d ask Téo to spend an hour or so over at Lincoln Road, so he could advise me on how I should plan out what renovations I needed to tackle immediately and what could wait until later. Hopefully, he could give me some guidance on how to find a decent contractor. That was something of which I knew nothing at all.
And that reminded me- I thought it might be a good idea to buy a little car to leave in the driveway, as a decoy. That was another item on my list of things I needed to discuss with Prentiss.
