Alcohol and asphalt, perhaps.
I might get a slight gust of subway air rising from the station at Jay Street-Borough Hall. Maybe a whiff of the spices from the import stores on Atlantic Avenue, and possibly a floral green breeze from the Botanic Garden.
But Kings County New York isn’t tentative, or maybe.
Give me the jazz zest, the hip-hop fire and the Philharmonic sweetness.
Give me diesel fumes of the BQE, Fulton Street funk and Coney Island animalics.
Give me drag queen cheesecake, everything bagels and spumoni on the Bridge.
This stuff projects only inches, not the length of Flatbush Avenue, and lasts barely through lunch, much less a Spike Lee movie, or a season binge of 2 Broke Girls.
I was born there.
Don’t spill a weak gin and tonic on the sidewalk and tell me it’s Brooklyn.