So I’m on the corner of Third and Washington at 9 a.m. and this baboon in a Toyota Land Cruiser rolls down his window and chucks a banana peel on the street right in front of me. I look down at the litter, look back up at him, shrug and start walking away.
A few seconds later I hear some sort of hooting and howling coming from the vehicle.
“It’s biogreebahbable,” it grunts, with the semi-digested banana meat oozing out of the sides of its snout.
“Excuse me?” I reply, amused that it’s trying to handle such a big word. This thing looks like it would have trouble even spelling SAT.
“It’s $*@%ing biodegradable,” it snarls back, having taken the time to chew and swallow some of the food in its mouth. Apparently the addition of a swear word lends to the natural flow and familiarity of its speech patterns.
“Alright,” I dismissively mutter, incredulous that I’m even involved in this conversation.
“$*@% you, I’m FROM here,” it howls, indicating that I’ve encroached upon its turf and that it’s thus marking its territory by spreading refuse.
At this point I bristle and decide to speak its language. “Well $*@% you too, because I LIVE here.”
I then notice the creature has festooned itself with an LA Boxing knit cap, perhaps in an attempt to intimidate any intruders. But considering the unpleasant misshape and overall state of its face, it’s obviously not a very good boxer.
Nevertheless it threatens to pull over and engage in a physical confrontation, but I figure if it is in fact from the area, it knows better than to try and find parking on the corner of Third and Washington at 9 a.m. So I stand my ground and defiantly thump my chest as it remains in its protective cage and scampers off to safety.
But the notion that it felt entitled to be a slob simply because it claimed to have been raised here was something that stayed with me long after I’d gotten over the urge to punch it in the mouth. And why, because it was raised here, did it see fit to treat me like an inferior?
A little personal history – I’ve lived in Hudson County for 12 years, and aside from a two-year interlude in Jersey City Heights, I’ve lived the rest of the time within 3 blocks of that very corner. In the meantime I’ve made friends here, gotten married here, and had a son here. I’ve also worked here, bought an apartment here and paid taxes here. So I find it well within my rights to call Hoboken my home.
Yet there’s a peculiar stigma given to those who choose to settle in this town. A lot has happened over the years as young urban professionals have clogged the city’s streets with BMW’s and Bugaboo strollers.
Personally, I’m no longer young and the furthest thing from professional, so I hate being lumped in with the “Brad and Buffy Yupiscumbs” that now populate much of this town. But the basis for the disdain is that the influx of new-“er” residents has spiked property values and priced many former residents out of the market. And this IS unfortunate, but don’t take it out on me.
Elected leaders – those beloved “Born N’ Raised” that people “FROM” this town ardently cling to and stump for – have allowed for the rampant development that created the situation. And many of them profited dearly from it as their friends, neighbors and constituents were forced from their homes.
Meanwhile I’m just a guy trying to live and work in a community that I proudly call my home. Sure, I’d rather not see it littered upon. But more to the point, I’d rather not see it overtaxed, overspent, and run into the ground by those who feel their sole qualification for governing my town is that they’ve lived here longer than me. To me, the fact that they’ve lived in this town longer means they’ve had more time to screw it up.
The beloved Frank Sinatra, “Hoboken’s Native Son,” lived in this town before I did. Later in life he famously called it a “sewer” and spat as his plane flew over the city. Of course, why would you blame him – after all, in 1947 people “FROM” Hoboken pelted him with tomatoes as he rode down the street on a parade float. But in fairness, the tomatoes were biodegradable…
Christopher M. Halleron, freelance writer/bitter bartender, writes a biweekly humor column for The Hudson Current and websites in the New York Metro area. He spends a lot of his time either in front of or behind the bar in Hoboken, New Jersey where his tolerance for liquor grows stronger as his tolerance for society is eroded on a daily basis. Feel free to drop him a line at c_halleron@yahoo.com.