Last Tuesday night, the Bed-Stuy Community Garden was a bit livelier than usual. Passersby craned their necks to see what was popping underneath the racket of steel drums. But George, the omnipresent senior presiding over the spot was holding court per usual.
“Lock your bike!” he croaked at me. But his grumpy-old-man abruptness subsided into a smile when I approached him. “Pose for a photo,” he instructed me and another woman I’d never seen before. Without hesitation she gripped my shoulder and smiled big into George’s iPhone. “That’s it!” George howled with laughter.