But he should have known something was up when the squatted building was designated historic. It had been an MTA powerhouse during the Herbert era, but that was ages ago. As far as Alfonzo had ever known, it was the straight-edge squat known as the Bat Cave. The frontage was marked by a big piece of graffiti, a painting of a spiderweb with the threads spelling out the word: RADIANT. One day, police came and evicted the squatters. Then workers came and fenced it off. The building was put on the market and sold for an astronomical sum. It was slated to become an arts center redesigned by famous architects. “They” were going to preserve the graffiti.

Before home, Alfonzo stopped at the fancy grocery store that had opened as part of the local transformation. He often shopped there, and felt ashamed and annoyed every time he did. But he was craving Bermuda grass and clover and cilantro and parsley. He also wanted those special Mauri Alpaca chews they didn’t have anywhere else. He ogled the dewy produce and inhaled the store’s consistent odor of lavender and lemongrass. A cashmere goat browsed while her free-range kids bounced around like popping corn. A chow chow blocked the aisle with her little wheeled basket full of wild-caught sardines and natural peanut butter.

Leaving the store, Alfonzo noticed something off in the canal. There was an industrial sucking noise and the multicolored dome that was some kind of public art was disappearing beneath the surface of blue-black-gray, rust-colored foam. A few months back, the store had unveiled this floating sculpture. It was meant to spruce up the arsenic-infused water. The artist had made a geodesic globe out of recycled umbrellas. You got a good view of the piece while sitting on the store’s benches. Alfonzo and Mitchell had mocked it many times while eating salads from the buffet. What an absurd ornament to decorate the ass water.

But something had caught hold since his last visit. The Gowanus would not let art disturb its chemical death. The spindly orb was almost fully submerged, and as Alfonzo stood on the dark walkway, the last bit of the globe sucked beneath the water’s surface. He looked around for another witness. In the dark sat one of the gutter punk rats from the old squat. They nodded to each other. No matter what the grocery store or the developers wanted, the canal had been there first. It had a stronger will. Industrial toxins would not surrender that easily. The repressed was still there, tugging at the loose edges, testing for the hidden weaknesses.

17.

Rain pattering outside the apartment woke Alfonzo. It was Saturday. He hadn’t set an alarm. He couldn’t fall back asleep, so he lay in his straw, humming along with the weather and contemplating the state of things.