Feeling lazy, I decided to stick close to home on Memorial Day weekend. Saturday evening, two friends and I headed out to a Thai restaurant that recently opened two blocks from my brownstone condo.Hoboken’s main street was uncharacteristically quiet, a welcome change courtesy of the twentysomethings who elected to go “down the shore” for the first long weekend of the summer. After filling up on spring rolls, soft-shell crabs, and green tea, we made our way out of the restaurant into the slightly cooled night air.
In front of the restaurant stood the owner, holding up a giant striped bass, straight from the Hudson River. Its gills were spread, revealing what resembled hundreds of rosy, rubber-tipped fingers. I had never seen such a huge fish up close before. Surrounding him was a group of children and several other adults, some of whom were holding fishing gear and plastic bags.
I immediately recognized Suzi, the Korean woman who owns the grocery store a few doors down from the Thai restaurant. Nearby was her 9-year old daughter, Ginny. A frequent patron of Suzi’s store, I had been appreciative of her helpfulness when I broke my foot last fall. She let me phone in my orders, then she’d gather up the items and send a deliveryman to my house. Since the deliveryman barely spoke English, Ginny, the “boss” of the outfit, would accompany him, collecting my money and completing the transaction.
Suzi’s son, an adorable, mischievous 5-year old, was sitting on the shoulders of another man, a Thai who was obviously connected to the restaurant. Playing with Suzi’s son was the Indian man with a lazy eye who works in the liquor store next to the Thai restaurant. Two other young girls talking to Ginny seemed to be the daughters of the middle-aged white man who owns the insurance company located on the next block.
“Want some fish?” Suzi laughed as she held open one of the plastic bags to reveal a pile of fillets. She and her daughter had gone fishing with the white man and his daughters while her husband had stayed behind to tend the store. Apparently, it was the owner of the Thai restaurant who was lucky enough to garner the big take of the day, but there were still plenty of fish in the bags and in a foam ice chest.
“No, no thank you,” I graciously declined. Full from my soft-shell crab, I was not interested in uncooked slabs of flesh from the Hudson River. I was, however, intrigued by the unlikely mix of friends, new business owners, and ethnicities I had stumbled upon. In that snapshot of camaraderie and sharing spirit, blind to race and social standing, the essence of America crystallized.
A sense of pride, for which I could take no credit, surged through me in that moment. There was only one thing more awe-inspiring than the scene unfolding before me: someone was going home that night to eat fish from the Hudson River. – Eileen Budd, Hoboken
Eileen Budd, a writer living in Hoboken, also does stand-up comedy.