Littoral Drift

     In true Memorial Day spirit, my rib-eye steak was marinated and topped with a thick coat of black pepper and Cajun spices. The corn was shucked and ready to go. The baked potato was well on its way in the oven, and the charcoal was starting to whiten under the flickering flames.

     I was in the living room when I heard the first screams.

     "Fire! Fire!" bellowed a voice from somewhere in the building to the right of mine.

     "Fire!" a man shouted again, as windows began to fly open all around.

     Just a few hours earlier, with the seemingly innocent intention of setting a grill up on my fire escape and engaging in a bit of good old backyard Memorial Day fun, I had gone to K-Mart to buy an el-cheapo and reclaim just one small hint of country life in the big city.

     And now this.

     "Fire!" This time it was coming from somewhere above me.

     I lunged toward the kitchen window, scoffing at my neighbors' misplaced screams.

     "It's a grill!" I yelled, restraining myself from adding "you idiots!"

     "In the corner! Fire!" the first neighbor yelled.

     I leaned out the window as far as I could without having my face charred by my shiny new grill. "It's a grill! Don't worry!"

     Even with my body half way out the window, I couldn't tell where all the commotion was coming from. I couldn't see any faces. Finally, when the yelling ceased, the voice from above me said, "Well I hope you're keeping an eye on it"

     "Yeah, obviously," I answered.

     With all the cacophony, I figured it was only a matter of time before Hook and Ladder Company Number Four would screech up and start axing down my front door. But no one had called 911.

Kool-Man, Too

     So I cooked my steak, but it was fraught with guilt (not to mention charred beyond recognition). All I wanted to do was usher in the summer. Instead, I labeled Apartment Three, 48 Marcy, a threat. To make matters worse, I learned it was illegal to barbecue on a fire escape. So much for that idea.

     I tell you it's not easy for a country boy to get into the summer spirit in the city. Even the Kool-Man ice-cream truck, with its silly little "Ragtime" jingle, has begun to irk me. I suspected Mr. Kool-Man was up to no good in that beat-up little green-and-white truck - ever since he started cruising the neighborhood this spring on weekday afternoons when kids were still in school.

     But now the insidious jingle is beginning to bore into my brain. I feel like I'm being tailed. Every day, no matter where I am in the neighborhood, I either hear the truck or run across it.

At O.T.B.

     To add to the creepiness, Mr. Kool-Man finally changed the truck's tune this weekend - to something that sounds just like the theme music from the "X-Files."

     In a nostalgic sense, summer in Brooklyn is all you'd expect - stoop-sitting, street stickball, hydrant jumping, and, of course, an ice-cream truck. I've seen all of it already and it's not even June.

     I walked by the local Off-Track Betting parlor this weekend to find a row of Bukowski look-alikes actually sitting outside in lawn chairs - spending "a day at the races" as it were.

Nudged Out

     Then, yesterday, I took my blades to the basketball courts across the street to practice some roller hockey. Within 10 minutes I was nudged out by a group of thuggish-looking dudes who complained I was ruining the surface of their court.

     On those summer days where I wish I was back at Indian Wells boogie boarding, I sometimes head to Coney Island. Coney Island can be a blast. I love basking in its old-New York grit. But it ain't the Hamptons.

     Being one of the "young and the shareless," it takes some planning to get me back out there, but you can expect to see a lot of me this summer, along with the rest of the refugees who've learned summer in the city is not really summer at all. Look for me; I'll be the one flipping steaks on the grill.