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ITjU c r p T m \\ t ^ i T T V /i 1 W 1 N ZTales Of RostenB r o o k l y n ' s Own Poet Laureate Tells How He Got The JobEarly one morning I looked out of the window into my street. A clear cool spring morning. The sun already spreading its light over the rooftops, light leaping to catch trellis and facade of buildings, glinting upon cornices, and beyond my sight it touches the high stone towers of the nearby Brooklyn Bridge. I lean out, and to my left, a block away, the street shears off at the riveredge: across my vision hurries a harbor ferry. I see the city afloat on water, my daily glimpse of Venice. Brooklyn and Venice? An absurd connection. Yet beauty may strike anywhere on earth, then disappear with the blink of an eye. People meanwhile hurried toward the subway with the scrubbed look of early risers. Chatter of birds in the trees: the shouts of children echoed everywhere. A setting of idyllic calm.Suddenly a voice could be heard above the hum of street activity, a resonant voice singing. A mechanical street sweeper came into view, driven by a young man who turned out to be the soloist. His head and upper torso leaned from the cab window as the vehicle swerved gaily around the comer, its two large rotary brushes whirling to attack the debris along the gutter. He was singing an Italian aria while he guided the sweeper against the curbside. (Where else such a moment but in Brooklyn?) A moment of the lyric beauty of man in harmony with Nature %u2014 except that his whirling brushes were whirling a foot or more above the ground. He had forgotten to lower them. He sang on, dreaming of his pension, as he accurately turned the comer, the street as dirty as before. No one cared, no one noticed, another day had begun.An hour later the phone rang. A genial, carefree voice came in over the wire.%u201cGood morning. Did I wake anyone? I%u2019m only kidding. You writers stay up all night and never sleep. This is Howard Golden, and I hope this is Norman.%u201d%u201cYes, and wide awake Howard.%u201d The borough president and I were friends; we%u2019d often meet dodging traffic, he hatless. I tieless, both breathless.%u201cCould I ask you to stop by this morning, if not sooner?%u201d he said with the air of a man guarding a secret.%u201cIf you want the name of an agent %u2014%u201d %u201cNo, I don%u2019t. I%u2019m not ready for my memoirs. How about Borough Hall in say an hour? Some small matter. We can share a bagel.%u201d%u201cWith coffee?%u201d%u201cYou got it.%u201d(This is Brooklyn, where such things happen continually).Borough Hall, several blocks away, is a hometown touch of the classical, a landmark estranged from the standard architectill*ol miw nf rtm oroo W o/lrlo nnKilifir fn onotherwise drab urban landscape, with the exception of the nearby federal post office building, a tum-of-the-century RomanesqueT here's no m o n e y init o f course. It's anh o n o ra ry thing, b u tw e 'll fin d som ethingfo r yo u to do.Speaking fo r th eb o ro u g h . I'd beh o n o re d if y o u 'dac ce p t.M u rra y Sem ach saysyo u deserve thisd o lla r-a -y e a r jo b .\\George Braziller. It is reprinted by permission of the author.favorite. As early as two years after this City Hall (as it was originally named) was built in 1849, a periodical commented disapprovingly of the %u201chicks and mortar, enorAO/*Kmnnto nrVitnK o%u00bbm> ovsrinrrinrf im on%u201c o %u25a0*\,11sides, with magic rapidity.%u2019Today, it remains a Greek Ionic structure throughout. The front portico is supported by six handsome Ionic columns with marble steps leading up from the street into lhe interior. A cupola, raised over the front center, is impressive, as is the whole, in4u --------a: %u2014 %u2014 %u00ab.-------------- n %u201e r __________ ac i u u u i g w i c v > u u u v v s u w / i n i u i i i ) u / i m c u u ipure white marble. It may be Greek, but it has always seemed to me a mildly neglected Florentine palazzo. The regulari %u00adty of the design (says my 1851 article) %u201cis somewhat marred, we are constrained to say, by the windows of the upper floor being considerably less than those mi the others.%u201d I enter this historic building. Among its corridors and rooms, a century and a half of political hijinks took place, featuring wise men and clowns, honest men and thieves, scandal and serenity; at this time, one may see our leader Howard Golden, scooting about on serious business, with the bravura of an MC. Howard may come across as a football lineman or professor of paleontology, depending on where you sit. He is a politician par excellence, that is, he keeps getting reelected in a tough arena where men are thrown to the lions daily. He is a handsome man (definite movie possibilities), his charm runneth over; his one-liners spring from native intelligence and good spirit; in short, a popular, pragmatic, jolly good fellow, if his press releases are on the mark.I pass an outside office of seekers: men, women, men with attache cases, men with beards and strange hats (Hasidim), men dressed well or in jeans, women clutching notebooks or large manila envelopes %u2014 seekers of jobs, favors, alleviation of pain, asking whatever minor gods can do to expedite justice. But I do not wait. I am ushered into the spacious inner office where Howard rises from his chair under the benign gaze of George Washington, reaches over to shake my hand, and says, %u201cI gave you one spoon of sugar and some milk to kill the tak e. Sit and try a bagel.%u201dSeated across from his desk, I dip my bagel into the coffee cup with precision. %u201cHow%u2019s the writing business?%u201d he asks. %u201cI hear the other Norman%u201d %u2014 he means Mailer, down the road apiece %u2014 %u201cjust got a million dollar contract.%u201d%u201cThat was last week, Howie. It doesn%u2019t happen every week.%u201d%u201cI want to interest you in something much less. Very much less.%u201d%u201cI may as well finish the bagel.%u201d%u201cEnjoy. Meanwhile, a member of our staff thinks it might be a good idea to appoint %u2014 hold on to your cup %u2014 a poet laureate for Brooklyn. I don%u2019t know what that is exactly, but I like the sound of it.And you can do it, he says. Murray Semach, he read your stuff and thinks you%u2019re great.%u201dOnce again, I hear the heavy knock of opportunity which can only have unhappy results.%u201cThere%u2019s no money in it, of course,%u201d he continues, %u201cit%u2019s an honorary thing, but we%u2019ll find something for you to do. Speaking for the borough. I%u2019d be honored if you%u2019d accept. You%u2019ve been a resident from way back, written books and articles about the place, and Murray says you deserve this dollar-ayear job.%u201d%u201cCan I think about it over a small nap?%u201d%u00bb U%u00ab nmiUJ %u201c117^*11 U____ * * * v k M lU lV U > M V U U U V V Uregular induction ceremony before the borough council and guests. Well invite theContinued on Page 8July 17,1988, THE PHOENIX, Page 7