Brooklyn 3, New York was my address as a kid: 880 Clarkson Avenue, Brooklyn 3, New York.
We didn't move, but in 1964 it changed: to Brooklyn, New York, 11203.
It had to do with mail. There was no actual Brooklyn 3. The 3 had simply meant postal code 3, that's all.
That was a shock. Until then, I'd wondered why we were Brooklyn 3. Where were Brooklyns 2 and 1? Were they vastly different? Was there a Brooklyn 4? 5? 6? How many Brooklyns were there?
Or did it mean time, not place? Was Brooklyn 2 when they had the Dodgers? Brooklyn 1, horses?
It turns out, now, that Brooklyn 3 does mean a time. It also means a place, distinctly, if an indistinct place.
The place was East Flatbush. How it got a number so high, a place so low-down, I don't know. It was so undistinguished, it barely got a name.
Elsewhere in Brooklyn were places. Sheepshead Bay. Brooklyn Heights. Bensonhurst. Bushwick. Bay Ridge. Gravesend. Coney Island. Bed-Stuy. Flatbush. Distinct places, with names.
Our place was so devoid of anything, it had to cop a name. East of someplace? That's it?
It was fitting, though. In a borough everyone knows, and has always known, we were unknown.
There are no famous sites in East Flatbush. No famous streets (East Flatbush Avenue?). No tourist attractions. No parks. No subway stop.
No one comes from there. No one goes there, unless they live there, or get shot.
Shot, because East Flatbush has Kings County Hospital - our one thing. That, and next door to it, Brooklyn State Hospital: a mental hospital, immense, half a mile long.
The wounded and shot. The crazy, caught or not. East Flatbush, Brooklyn 3, New York.
