what passes for privacy in brooklyn

i am getting a headstart on my 2008 resolution, which is to do more blogging — an entry every six months just doesn’t cut it.

last night i took my dad out for xmas eve dinner at his favorite restaurant in brooklyn. he’s been eating there for decades — perhaps half a century — and doesn’t care how much (or little, in most cases) anybody else likes the place. but hey, it’s xmas, and my family stopped doing the wrapped-packages thing many years ago. eating dinner with dad at Garguilo’s without complaining is my holiday present to him, and at this point in his life all he wants for christmas is at least one of his three kids sitting across the white tablecloth, not fighting with anybody.

were just sopping up the garlic butter sauce from our shared appetizer of baked clams when a quiet commotion broke out a few feet away. i heard somebody say “he fell, he fell” near the knot of waiters and diners and (soon) white-hatted chefs that gathered in and soon entirely blocked the aisle. i saw a pale hand on the floor and told my father i thought a kid had fallen down. “a kid?” he says, “are you sure?” i’m not sure. all i can see at this point is a wall of black-suited backs and if it’s a kid i don’t want to get up and spectate, it might scare the shit out of him worse than he is already. a friendly bottle blond passes by, nods, says “yeah, he just fell down from the chair dead. heart attack. he’s gone.” how can she know all this so quickly? yet the minute it’s out of her mouth (in pure brooklynese, of course: hejuzz fehdown fromduh cheyah ded — hard atteck, heezeGAWN) we know it’s true. i stand up.

wannabe patrons are edging up the short flight of stairs, peeping whatever it is that’s keeping them from their dinners. somebody’s doing slow motion CPR. waiters and owners and busboys and chefs are running in all directions. i autodial my brother in new hampshire. of all the long and usually tedious dinners he’s suffered through in this place, this one he misses. “guy’s not breathing,” i tell him. by then i could see that and also can (still) hear several voices from the knot of worried penguins above him saying it. it occurs to me i can record this for him so i get off the phone and stand up again just as a handful of diners come flying up from the back room. a young woman in a black sweater muscles everyone aside and starts doing real CPR on the guy. one of the waiters sees me standing up and being shy about my little digicam, and encourages me to move to the front, actually pointing out the open seat with the best sightlines.

turns out the rescuer gets his heart going just a moment before the EMTs and all their equipment hit the scene. murmurs of “miracle” go around the room, the man opens his eyes, seems to be trying to talk. he’d been out for at least 4 minutes, likely longer. i didn’t think it worked that way, that you just get up from the dead and start answering questions, but here he was.

the woman in the black sweater medical student from georgetown (”just graduated top of her class” her cousin tells me, “we got two doctors in the family now”).

i didn’t even realize that NYPD was on the scene until one of them got in my face. “you recording this?” he asked. “yeah. bad idea?” he says “yes. this is a private moment.”

as i see it, this was likely to have been one of the least private moments the poor guy has ever had — there are a few hundred people in this restaurant and every one of them watching. but it’s christmas and i have to remember my present for dad. eat at The Garge and don’t have no arguments. i shut down the camera and get back to my table just as they carry the poor lucky guy out the door on a stretcher.

Recent Posts:

• Writers’ Holiday Not Giving Campaign Call for Action of No Spending [a guest post]
• let’s make the cops EARN their weapons
• why do socks make me so happy?
• common sense vs. the law
• what i fucking hate the about the fucking christmas season

bookmark to: