How Steve Buscemi fell in love with the Brooklyn Botanical Garden

A hypothetical origin story about how Steve Buscemi's name wound up on a tile at the Garden

**This piece is entirely fiction**

Photo credit: beloved

Steve Buscemi was having a tough time relaxing.

It wasn’t that he was unable to relax. His body could do it, but his mind refused to slow down. He tried many things at this point—making warm tea, broths, soaking in baths, playing music to dance to in the solitude of his home, even yoga. He would begin the ritual, thinking to himself, “Yes, this will be the day that I feel relaxed,” only to find himself half an hour later, pacing the room, talking to himself about the slow and painful degradation of the planet, how effortless it was to see the parallels between the failing state of the world in all its climate change, war, greed, grief, and his own aging body.

He tried adopting an animal, hoping that it might help him find some respite from his days. He was allergic to cats and dogs which limited his options, so he chose a small rabbit. It was very soft and nice to sit with, but it pooped all over the apartment, a surprisingly difficult animal to train. He named the rabbit Elephant, and tried to develop a relationship with it by having one sided conversations and feeding it tiny carrots and greens. But ultimately, the animal brought him more work than relaxation and realistically, he was in no position to care for this creature on his own. He wound giving Elephant to his friend Carl, who loved animals with every fiber of his being.

“You need to relax,” his therapist said.

“Yes, but how!” he replied.

He’d been seeing this therapist for the last 2 years since the death of his wife, and with every session he felt less and less hopeful. The therapist was kind and good, he had no personal issues with therapy… and yet, something about sharing his grievances with this human who was otherwise a stranger to him, in the windowless room with forest green walls and a salt lamp in the corner, felt staged. As if he entered a narnia-like purgatory every week, carrying a small portable treasure chest of fortune cookies filled with seemingly meaningless memories that only he was capable of accessing and sharing as his “truths”. He would have been just as happy eating the fortune cookies in an attempt to forget the past, instead of giving them to his therapist as trivial gifts each week. He tried explaining this feeling once, which then prompted his therapist to ask him how much sleep he was getting.

He thought it might be a good idea to join the local YMCA. The one in Park Slope was known to be welcoming and he thought it couldn’t hurt to meet some people his age who were not ego maniac actors or directors. It had been such a long time since he’d connected with others who enjoyed organized sports, and there was a basketball team that met weekly at the Y.

“Oh my god are you Steve Buscemi?” asked the receptionist at the Y, while he attempted to sign up for a membership.

“Uhh yeah...keep it down though.”

“Wow you were so mean in that one movie, what was it?? You know, the one where you wore the suit?? Are you mean in real life??”

“I wear a lot of different suits kid, come on I just wanna play some basketball.” He tried to say this as kindly as possible, but he’d had this exchange so many times, and he would have preferred to just get past it. It was too late, however, the receptionist could no longer hear the words coming out of his mouth. She took her phone out for a photo, forcing him to take an ‘ussie’ as the kids called it, attracting more attention from fellow staff members and YMCA members.

“Is that STEVE. BUSCEMI??? What the hell you doin’ at the Y, kid?”

He recognized the voice immediately, making the hairs on his neck stand tall. It was the voice of Perry Blake, the pompous prick who had slept with his wife years ago and never let him forget it. Marriage was a sham for many reasons, but especially when cheating was involved. He had forgiven her because he loved her, but Perry could eat shit.

“Am I smelling…steaming…hot…shit? Is that what you think you are? Too hot to talk to your old pal?” Perry said, grinning, tapping him on the back as if they were old friends. Steve Buscemi wanted to hide.

“Listen Perry, I don’t have time for this today, I’m very busy here,” he said, averting his eyes.

“Are you kidding? I haven’t seen you in years, you can’t escape me that easy! I didn’t even know you still lived in the neighborhood, you know I always thought so fondly of your wife even after that whole mess. Why the hell are you here??” Perry could never catch a hint.

“I uh, y’know. Thought I’d join the basketball team. I’m just trying to relax, okay? You aren’t helping. Y’know, it’d be great if we just ended this whole thing right now, you go your way, I’ll go mine. I’m not lookin’ for any trouble.” Steve Buscemi stared at Perry directly in the eye, forgetting that Perry lost an eye years ago to cancer. He couldn’t believe this was the man his wife had chosen over him. God bless her soul.

“What’s this ‘whole thing’ anyways, you’ve always been so dramatic. You’re playing basketball, huh? I’m the team captain!” Perry seemed lost and excitable.

“That so? Then there’s no way I’m playing, I’m gettin’ the hell outta here,” Steve mumbled to himself. “I can’t play with you Perry, you’re such a pain in my ass, y’know that right?”

Steve Buscemi walked out the door, muttering to himself. The receptionist yelled after him, asking if he wanted to finish signing up for his membership. Perry yelled after him, calling him a little baby. He tuned it all out. All he wanted was to go to sleep for a year and wake up refreshed and recharged, and though he was not sure if that was actually possible for a human body to achieve, he knew one thing for sure—having a heart attack from getting into a fight on the court with Perry, was not going to help him relax.

He found himself near Prospect Park, so he walked through the park, avoiding cyclists and joggers, trying to connect with his surroundings like his therapist had told him to do when he was feeling angry. It took him a while to observe the racing thoughts as they moved through his mind, but after what felt like ages, he was able to notice the deep green of the the leaves on the trees, a time marker of the season—hot, but dry, in the middle of June in New York City. He got lost in the colors of the trees, the sounds of wheels on concrete, feet hitting the ground at an unnaturally fast pace. Nobody recognized him in this park, which he loved, because everyone was so busy doing whatever it was they were doing—running, walking, biking, staring at their phone while running, walking, or biking.

Time passed quickly for him in Prospect Park, and he started to feel the beginnings of relaxation—was that what it felt like, to be fully present with the surroundings and not try to change anything about his inner and outer worlds? Unclear to him, and frankly, he was concerned for his mental well being when his thoughts weren’t racing, because it was so normal for him. He eventually found himself at the side of the park near the Brooklyn Library. He exited, and walked along Eastern Parkway towards the Brooklyn Museum, and paused for a moment.

The Botanical Garden… now that’s a fuckin’ relaxing place I bet. But I’ve never been inside, how have I never been inside?

He secured his hat and sunglasses, and entered the Garden. He paid his entry fee quickly and was grateful for the receptionist who refused to look up from their phone while scanning him in, making his entrance easy without excessive attention or conversation. Once he was inside, which was actually outside, he walked down the path and found himself on a manmade precipice that overlooked hundreds of trees, plants, smaller gardens, and pathways.

Are you fucking kidding me? My therapist’s office is right down the street, and we never talked about this shit??

He sat on a bench. The sky was a perfect shade of blue against the lush green of the trees, the reflection of the grass making all the colors even more robust, as if they were showing off to his eyes; the flowers, of every texture, shade, and color, snaked their way through bushes and carefully planted gardens, which appeared picture-like, as if they’d been painted, rather than planted, onto the landscape. The birds that flew above his head and onto the tree branches, were not particularly exotic but foreign to him—he’d never seen such tiny birds in his life, with accents of yellow, red, white, and black.

He sat back on the bench and exhaled. This, he thought to himself, was a place to relax.