My feelings for or against Bushwick fluctuate every few days, it seems. On days we go to Northeast Kingdom, we have to walk what I call the Ghetto Gauntlet: up Troutman from Central, past gushing fire hydrants that soak my chanks, families using the entire sidewalk as their front yard, rotten trash overflowing in front of filthy buildings with rats the size of cats knocking over unused “Bushwick Initiative” trashcans…we breathe a sigh of relief after crossing Irving and making it to the peaceful, though depressing in a different way, Jefferson/Wyckoff industrial area. During dinner, I actually waste a few moments dreading the walk back. That’s a bad Bushwick day.

Other days catch me on a good note. One day it was disgustingly hot out, so I stopped for a piragua at the elementary school on Central on my way home. I waited patiently behind the kids in line before handing the man a dollar and snatching my cold reward. When I got home, I sat on my stoop, crunching and slurping away on chunks of amber-colored ice — they were super sweet as the piragua man had doused it with syrup to overflowing, and my hands were completely sticky. I was happy. Just then a lady pushing a stroller walked by, and I shot her a big smile. Her stone face cracked and she gave me one back. That’s a good Bushwick day.

My attitude toward Bushwick runs from “ugh, hurry up and gentrify so I can rip off some yuppie with this dump house and move back to civilization” to “I’m not going anywhere, they’re not going anywhere, I might as well exploit the bright spots and enjoy my stint here.” Not an extreme spread, I agree. An example of making the most of it is when I feel overwhelmed by ghetto actions — howling up at windows, blaring reggaeton — I just turn lemons into lemonade by taking a walk past the handball courts and staring down the shirtless boys. Wanna be noticed, pa? I’m noticing you. How’s that feel? (I somewhat resent having turned into an old lech at 27 — this is everybody’s fault but mine).

So my cable modem got fried by last week’s storm, and just the telephony part wasn’t working. They sent a tech today: the van pulled up, faded Puerto Rico bandera fluttering from the antenna, and out hopped 180 pounds of pura lesboricua, cropped reddish hair cemented back with a palmful of gel. She stomped up my steps in her white t-shirt and Dickies, and immediately started cracking jokes about my perpetually-growling dog (“we know you’re the boss, Killer, you’re workin’ hard, but now it’s time for a break”). She was full of advice about figuring out which of the 40 wires hanging off the house I can cut without cutting any services. She noticed the fresh wounds in the floor and ceiling where a wall had been before this weekend, and all the sheetrock dust-covered tools and said “When you’re done with this house, it’s gonna be beautiful. Good job, papi.” She switched out my modem, hopped into her truck and headed off to some account on Willoughby. My heroine.

Today is a good Bushwick day. Not even an Escalade shaking my house to the foundations with distorted Daddy Yankee lyrics can ruin that.