There are green tomatoes growing along the sidewalks of Underhill Avenue in Brooklyn. Why none of the rowdy children who dominate these smooth, glistening sidewalks with ripsticks, skateboards and I-Pods have not stopped to trample the vine or to toss one of at least a dozen baseball- sized fruits at oncoming cars is odd. Of course, the saucy white middle class individuals who live along this expensive patch of brownstone buildings must permit their pure breed dogs with summer fur-cuts to urinate upon the plant that someone took the time to plant under a small tree that has yet to grow beyond a mere five feet; but there they are – forbidden fruit it seems, unpicked by the hundreds who must pass by here every hour or so.
The patch consisting of just one tomato plant with an abundance of near-perfect crop is so tempting—A little bath in scrambled eggs, a powdering of flour and the splatter of hot grease followed by a sprinkling of salt and pepper. There they are for the taking—growing right along the sidewalks of Brooklyn—just steps away from the Brooklyn Public Library, to which I came today to borrow the internet and check out a few more books to read.
I shall bend over near the tree and pretend to be securing a shoe lace—even though today I wear flip flops.
I nearly tossed the butt of an American Spirit menthol cigarette on the square patch of soil surrounding a tree planted right on the sidewalk where the tomato grows. Angry for not yet kicking the habit, I had the butt between my thumb and middle finger, ready to flick with disgust in myself, but it was then, out of the corner of my hazel eyes peering from behind the last great puff of smoke from my American Spirit that I spotted the little farm.
I’m only taking the tomatoes because I’m hungry and still without a source of income. I shall leave a hard copy of this note at the base of the plants as mulch and hope the kind soul that placed it here understands the nature of nature.