The Sorrows of Young Werewolf (eyeteeth) wrote,
The Sorrows of Young Werewolf

Only the dead know the Brooklyn Bridge

Whoops, sorry LJ, this arrives a little late to you, though it was up on the website in time. Yes, I'm at an office again. It's in a nice neighborhood in Brooklyn. You know, Brooklyn became a part of New York City in 1898, if I recall my New York history correctly, but neither Brooklyn nor Manhattan has ever fully accepted this. We all know intellectually that both are boroughs of the same city, but emotionally Brooklyn will always regard Manhattan as the abode of soulless rich fucks with no borough pride, while Manhattan will always regard Brooklyn as the abode of pretentious hipster creeps plus it's impossible to find your way around that place, like fuck, man, why isn't it laid out in a grid? Obviously class and race are heavily involved here, which makes the observation less amusing, but it is true that I was born and raised in Manhattan and live there now, and that as soon as I step out of a train station in Brooklyn I am hopelessly lost, and that this happens with such regularity that it feels like some kind of curse. I don't think it's genetic because neither of my parents is from Manhattan originally. If I had to write a fantasy novel about it (and it's a good thing for everyone that I don't), I'd say that relations between Manhattan and Brooklyn have been tainted by the vengeful spirits that haunt that symbol of their union, the Brooklyn Bridge. After all, about twenty-seven people died building it, and that's not even counting how the designer's foot got crushed and he handed the project over to his son before dying of tetanus, and then the son got paralyzed by decompression sickness and could only watch from his apartment while his wife ran the show on site for the next fourteen years -- not just relaying her husband's orders, but supervising crews, making calculations, dealing with politicians, and seriously being in charge. See, in the novel I'm not going to write, we need to summon the spirit of Emily Warren Roebling to help us overcome the vengeful dead, because it's her bridge and there's even a plaque on it that names her along with her husband and father-in-law. Plus Wikipedia says that in 1883, "in advance of the official opening, carrying a rooster as a sign of victory, Emily Roebling was the first to cross the bridge by carriage" and if you don't think that's badass get out of my face. That's how she'd appear, when summoned, in the novel I'm not going to write. In some fancy gown, all whaleboned, ostrich plumes in her hair, gloves up to her elbows, carrying a rooster.
Tags: new york, stix, writing
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