Outside Bradford Hall, there is a stoop. Some of the stairs, especially to the right of the railing that bisects it, are worn to the point of depression; instead of a level surface, there is a divot.
The left hand door doesn’t open, and sometimes, residents and non-residents — like the dark-haired man in the olive-colored jacket who just walked past me up the stairs — will tug, see it doesn’t open, and then reach for the right. The Bradford Stoop is also a social spot, a gathering place for the smokers of the building.
Right now, there is a man in a black windbreaker smoking a cigarette like James Dean; his hand curls around the cigarette and he pinches it between his thumb and pointer finger. He’s standing off to the side. Another person, a woman with dark hair and a colorful skirt, sits facing 33rd Street and smokes with dainty precision. Her cigarette rests between her pointer finger and middle finger. Every so often, she blows smoke rings.
From the stoop, you can also see the JHMI (some people pronounce it Jimmy) shuttle stop. The crowd grows, and then when the shuttle pulls to the curb, waits and then pulls away, there is no one left. Like right now. Because it is “rush hour” this cycle happens more often.
Just now, as the shuttle is getting ready to pull away, a Bradford resident runs out, waving her hands and screaming for the shuttle to “wait, wait, wait!” She dashes across the street, despite the fact that the traffic light is green. Somehow, she gets on the shuttle.
Despite the brief moments of raucous, it remains relatively quiet and peaceful. Except for the occasional concert of squeaky breaks and blaring horns that permeate the air. This is city living.
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