Smith St. Between Nelson and Huntington

By Paul Ford

No one lives on this block. It is empty of all but passing life. On the left, the elevated F and G lines move through at intervals, straddling above a playground with thick latticework made up of steel beams coated in concrete. For years, the concrete was shedding, and you would find thick chunks of it, split in pieces from the 20-foot drop. The playgrounds located under the elevated line were often closed. Now they have wrapped almost the entire length of the structure in black plastic mesh, and studded it with silver rivets—“bedazzled it,” someone said. Where before it was simply dingy, it is now monstrous and elephantine, and so hideous that I am awed by its lurking presence.

The 75 bus runs here, in the shadow of its larger, older brother.

Facing north, the elevated line descends, closer to earth with every inch, heading underground on its way to Manhattan. There is a large empty lot to the right. After 7 years, no one has yet claimed it for construction of any kind, which makes me wonder if it's poisoned and unusable. Filled with weeds and a span of concrete, some marked with half-hearted graffiti, the lot is clearly prime spot for the pursuit of drug addiction, binge drinking, and sexual intercourse, but despite a few tears in the fence, I never see anyone there, although I have not made much effort in this direction.