Greenpoint

The beat-up Buick Rivera pulled to the curb outside of Rossia’s convenience store. Inside three young men sat; two were Latino, one was African-American. All of them were in their late teens, and all of them were armed. They watched the store, and people coming and going as they headed to work from their congested apartments. It was going on 8:00 am and people were heading to work. To everyone on the street it was business as usual, the same hum of traffic, the same city smell that never seemed to change, the same routine day after day. Greenpoint was located in Brooklyn, New York; it was your typical urban community with tightly placed apartment houses standing right next to each other. The buildings were old, and some were in need of repair, but despite this, they displayed a sense of warmth and life like an old blanket that had holes and needed to be thrown out…but was loved too much to be discarded. For many, Greenpoint was the only world they had ever known since they were children. For others it was like a prison with a life sentence. But for others, like Moshe and Oniya Rossia it was heaven and a place they never wanted to leave. Greenpoint had its good side as well as its bad; its history was long and full and at one time the people who resided within its imaginary boundaries were proud and had a strong sense of community of people working together and helping one another through the bad times that life always seemed to give. Yet time had a way of eroding everything, good or bad. The community that at one time had been full of goodwill and togetherness had slowly disintegrated into violence and chaos. At certain times of the day walking the street wasn’t an option, and if you were out at night, you were either brave—or stupid, because you surely were taking your life in your own hands. Everyone knew these problems existed, everyone wanted change, everyone wanted justice, and everyone wanted someone else to do it. The neighborhood’s downward spiral had been a gradual one, taking decades to form into what it was today. People blamed the world as a whole for causing it—the ever increasing pace of society, the total disrespect children had for their parents…the lack of parents being home, the booming population and many other reasons. In truth though, everyone knew that there was nobody in particular to blame, no one to vent their anger at…except the politicians. Today was like any other day in Greenpoint, the Latino driver looked at his gold watch and then at his companions. “Go get ’em” was all he said. The two young men got out of the car; they wore long overcoats which easily hid their weapons as they moved rapidly toward the small convenience store. People scattered, just from the mannerisms of the youths people around and on the street could “sense” trouble was about to happen. They stepped through the door of the store and casually walked down one of the aisles, as if looking for something. Behind the counter Moshe Rossia, the store owner, bagged groceries for the customer who was about to head out the door. He never took notice of the two youths as they entered. Ringing the cash register, he handed the woman her change and thanked her with a smile the residents of Greenpoint had come to love from the old Jewish man. Moshe Rossia and his wife, Oniya, had immigrated to the United States after the Second World War. Both had been liberated from the death camps and when they were reunited, they swore that they would live life for every minute, never letting the world’s problems drag them down. They had found a renewed sense of life…from death. They were both well-loved in the small community and through the years had helped many residents through the tough times, sometimes never asking for anything in return. They had never been robbed before, nor had they ever had any problem with the community gangs. In fact, they often said, “giving love, grows love.” Today was not one of those days. “Hands in the air, sucker!” the African-American youth yelled, drawing rapidly up to the counter with a pistol-gripped shotgun drawn up toward Moshe. “What is this? Why do you do this thing? There is no need,” he said shaking his head in disbelief. “Where are they, old man?” he yelled. “Where is what?” Moshe said resuming his stance with his hands up in the air. “Where is the rest of the money?” the Latino youth snarled. “There is no more money,” he replied. At that moment, a young woman came through the front door, the overhead bell jingling as it opened. Startled, the African-American youth wheeled around with his shotgun pulling the trigger as he did. The woman, in shock, never knew what happened as the blast from the shotgun tore through her chest, smashing her back against the glass doors. Broken like a marionette, her body toppled to the floor as blood splattered everywhere. At the same moment, the Latino youth, startled from the shotgun blast, pulled the trigger on his handgun…repeatedly.