Last Saturday, Andy and I were enjoying the nice weather with a walk along the promenade. So was everyone else. The place was packed. Seats were scarce. The line at the Mr. Softee truck was 15 long.

“Spring has sprung,” Andy was saying as my cell phone began ringing.

A quick glance at the caller ID told me it was Dave, old college friend and current Gowanus pioneer.

Once known for its stinky canal, Gowanus had in recent years become a prime locale for gentrification surfing – the act of buying property in the hope of riding the wave of the next “up and coming” neighborhood.

Dave and his wife, Andréa, had moved to Gowanus from Alphabet City two years ago. Not only had they bought and refurbished a vinyl-sided Archie Bunker-style row house, Dave and Andrea had also managed to convince six of their friends to rent apartments on their block, including the upper duplex of their own house. Now, instead of calling it Gowanus, they affectionately referred to their neighborhood as “Park Swamp.”

“We’re celebrating spring with a barbecue tonight,” Dave told me when I answered his call. “You guys should definitely stop by.”

And so we found ourselves that evening in Dave and Andrea’s ample if not beautiful backyard, eating Costco-bought hot dogs and admiring the plastic lawn ornaments of their non-Brobo – Brooklyn Bobo – neighbors on the other side of the chain-link fence.

“I’m so glad Dave and Andrea live out here,” I said to Andy when we arrived. “We always see everyone at their parties.”

“I can’t believe how pregnant you’ve gotten,” Erin, a college friend who was now an editor at an upscale glossy magazine was saying. Andy had gone off to get drinks. “The last time I saw you it was just a little bump!”

I nodded, eyebrows raised, as if to say umm-hmm. I opted not to actually say umm-hmm because my mouth was full of hot dog. “Are you sure you want to be eating that hot dog, Eve?” a voice rang out from behind me. “It has so many nitrates.”

It was Courtney, the also-pregnant wife of my platonic childhood friend Matthew. She was my nemesis – and also, apparently, the food police.

“I’m sure I want to be eating this hot dog, Courtney,” I said after chewing and swallowing. “It’s very tasty. You should try one.” “I’ll stick to veggie burgers,” she said, touching her belly as she walked away.

Just as I was thinking, “Maybe it wasn’t always so great to see everyone,” I felt a hand on my back.

“Eve Abramson,” the low, slow voice was familiar. “Look at you.” It was Danny Prince, stoner musician and ex-boyfriend.

Seeing Danny at this barbecue should not have been a surprise. For one thing, I knew that he and Dave were still friends – in part because Dave was still friends with everybody. For another, he lived in Park Slope. Brooklyn is the borough of old boyfriends.

“Hi,” I said, leaning in for a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. Danny and I were the kind of exes who, despite a not-so-nice breakup, pretend to be friendly. But we were now both married, I was pregnant, and I’d heard he had a kid. I’m not sure I can even remember the particulars of our breakup drama. Perhaps, I thought, standing and smiling, we really were amicable now.

“You’re glowing,” he said. Maybe because of those positive pregnancy hormones, water-under-the-bridge thoughts were making me think, if only to myself, that, yes, Danny Prince was now a casual acquaintance.

We chatted a bit more, and he caught me up on his now-one-year-old son, Eli. “Being a parent is just the most amazing thing,” he said. There was a glint in his eye. I told him it was nice to see him so into fatherhood, silently commending us both for being such good grown-ups.

He asked if we “knew what it was,” and I told him we weren’t finding out the baby’s sex. I then gave him what was fast becoming my catchall line on the subject: “I think the cliff-hanger ending will help me get through labor.”

“I hear that,” he said, nodding. And then he added, “So, are you planning going natural?”

I felt myself beginning to bristle. Why is it that a drug-free birth is considered “going natural”? Does not taking aspirin mean you have a “natural” headache? But, telling myself there was no need to get touchy, I told Danny Prince that, as a person who needs the gas for a teeth cleaning, I thought it would be best to get the epidural.

“That’s cool,” he said. “Kat,” his speech-therapist wife, “went natural. But the drugs are fine too,” he added too quickly. “No shame in that game,” he said in that faux-chill way that can smack of condescension.

Until that moment, I had never been sensitive about my “birth plan.” When asked about it, I’d usually quipped, “my only ‘birth plan’ is a plan to give birth.'” But who was Danny Prince to tell me there was “no shame” in getting pain relief for childbirth?

I took a deep breath, prepared to say something curt that would confirm Danny Prince’s return to ex-boyfriend status. But instead of speaking, I was stopped by a familiar smell of smoke and skunkiness radiating from Danny Prince himself. Suddenly, his comments seemed funny.

“Danny,” I said lightheartedly, “are you even having a natural barbecue?” The look on his face was answer enough. I winked and patted his shoulder. “No shame in that game either.”

The Brooklyn Chronicles, a work of fiction, appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.