106th Street and Amsterdam : The Gods of Amsterdam

The West End Presbyterian Church, on the corner of 105th and Amsterdam, was built in 1891. From my bedroom window I can see its bell tower. The bells, which call the faithful to service on Sundays, chime the hour throughout the week, and play extended sets of "Ode to Joy" and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus" at noon and at six o'clock, can be heard throughout my building and for several blocks. People rely on them for various tasks that require timing: one of my neighbors refuses to leave his car on the side of the street that is legal at ten o'clock until he has heard the ten o'clock bells, no matter what anyone else's watch might say.

I loved them when I first moved into the neighborhood. I had never heard real church bells and they reminded me of a Michelle Shocked song, "5:00 a.m. in Amsterdam". The bells on Amsterdam Avenue didn't ring at 5:00 a.m., thank God, but they rang and still do from nine to nine. I found them romantic and wonderful.

"Wait until you are hungover and trying to sleep late on Sunday morning; they'll lose their charm," my boyfriend, David, told me. He had already lived in the place for more than ten years when I moved in.

"A small price to pay for the greater for glory of God," I said.

"The only god in this country is the god of commerce," he replied. "You're just talking about what people do on Sunday."

Oddly enough, years later when we were breaking up, it was the bells that I thought could be the final straw that would drive me to madness while I was deep in the clutches of my misery. I would wrap pillows around my head to try and shut them out, each and every hour bringing a new wave of despair as they ceaselessly reminded me of the sudden slowness of time.

It was shortly after that period, when I had mostly recovered and the bells had once again slipped into the familiar background of the soundtrack of my life that the video-game store that had operated for a couple of years next door to the church went of of business. The space stayed empty for a few motnhs. Then suddenly there appeared a sign:

COMING SOON
DUNKIN DONUTS

This announcement generated quite a bit of excitement of Amsterdam Avenue. This would be the first national franchise to open in the neighborhood, which was mainly full of bodegas and Dominican diners. The local residents seemed to feel honored as work began on the storefront.

I was not thrilled, for two reasons. One, I saw it as a harbinger of the dreaded "G" word: gentrification. (Turns out I was right about that one.) Two, I grew up in the south and was raised on Krispy Kremes; I find Dunkin Donuts to be a vastly inferior substitute, and I do take my donuts seriously. But a poor substitute is better than none at all and besides, their coffee is pretty good, so I reluctantly joined in the anticipation of the new store's arrival.

Before too long a pink and brown awning went up in front. I didn't like it. It was ugly and seemed so incongruous with the rest of the block--especially right next door to the old church. My newly found enthusiasm vanished.

"It's just wrong," I said to my new boyfriend, Peter. "It doesn't belong here. Why don't they open it on Broadway?"

"You just don't like change," he said. "I saw a guy that looks like the owner. He seems OK."

Indeed, I had seen him, too and he did look OK: youngish, blond and very enthusiastic. He drove a little VW convertible with a vanity plate that read: DONUTS. He was excitedly opening his new store and I found it hard not to root for him.

"I'll buy you a Boston creme and a cup of coffee when it opens. Bet you'll change your tune."

"Unngh...," I grumbled, but let it go. What could I do? "The neighborhood just isn't what it used to be."

A few days later Peter came to pick me up for a date. As I let him into the apartment he said, "That cup is the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"You haven't seen it?" he asked.

"What?"

"Uh-oh--you're not going to like this."

Out on the street, on top of the ugly pink and brown awning, a giant plastic cup (presumably of coffee) had been erected. Looking south from the corner, the enormous cup rose halfway up the bell tower of the church, completely destroying the view.

"NO!" I wailed. "I can't look at that every day of my life."

"It's pretty bad," Peter said.

"Will you help me destroy it?" I asked. "We could go up on my roof, climb down into the awning and knock it down."

"OK," he said.

"Do you promise?" I asked.

"No, but let's go now. Maybe the guy will realize how offensive it is and take it down."

The cup stayed. Not being a Presbyterian, I don't know how the church people felt about it. Perhaps they thought it was predestined to be there and so offered no resistance. In terms of the neighborhood, it didn't seem to bother anybody but me. No one that I complained about it to seemed to care. No one would join me in my sabotage fantasies, anyway. I cringed every time I walked by.

The store opened. To the owner's credit, he hired neighborhood kids to work there and let them play whatever kind of music they wanted to. There was usually a line during the morning rush hour. Peter made good on his promise for the Boston creme and coffee and eventually my boycott gave way and I would stop in for an afternoon treat occasionally. The owner would park his little VW in front and stand outside hosing down the sidewalk. He looked as out of place as his cup did, but he didn't seem to notice that either. He smiled at his customers as they came and went.

The one day, as suddenly as the first one, a new sign appeared in the window:

STORE CLOSED
THANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS

I guess the blond guy moved on. Maybe he has Subway franchise in Connecticut now and a vanity plate reading: HAMANDCHEESE. He was just slightly ahead of the curve on Amsterdam Avenue.

The shop was empty for more than six months before reopening again as a Dunkin Donuts. It's an Indian-looking man who runs the place now. He seems to be making a go of it and sells two-for-one donuts at closing time.

The cup still stands and the bells still chime on the hour--both I think, in the greater glory of their respective gods.