The Streets Provide No Safe Passage (an IDM piece) 12.14.03

Now the walks are paved in slush and ice and rain and footsteps are held in this muck, craters leading towards the terrain; caught in time. The rain makes it hard to walk and ankle deep puddles reach from sidewalk to sidewalk. My boots are soaked and in the bathroom.

I suppose I should tell you, if you haven’t heard already, I got robbed Saturday night. Myself and the visiting Gully were down at the Bergen Street stop of the F, switching over to the G train, on our way up to Khadijah’s in Greenpoint. The L wasn’t working. Down by the turnstyles a pair of boys, young men, were at the gate. I think they were trying to convince someone to pay them to swipe people in, which doesn’t really make sense. But people do it. Gully goes through, I think nothing of these kids.

Until one grabs my hand and wallet—stupidly, stupidly out in my left hand—and says “give me your money,” in the dopey way kids do when they’ve hardly ever done it before. Though this kid must have been six-foot-two he had a little “can I do this?” in his voice, less than sure from what I saw from his eyes. Kind of like when I was walking in my neighborhood once, years ago, and some kid pulled a box cutter on me, to see my reaction. I stared at that guy and he and his (junior high) people kept going before I realized it was a box cutter.

But Saturday night, this kid gets my wallet out of my hand—I am standing there with my Metrocard in the other—and I’m like, did that just happen? Two more kids emerge and jet up the stairs; I reach for the kid yelling Give me back my Shit. And up the stairs in my boots, not gaining, missing on the first reach for that puffy diamond jacket, on the street, watching them race through the projects just a block from where I used to live.

That’s my station and I got robbed. Not that I could have done much to prevent it. Later on a cabbie asked me “how many were there?” And “what did you do?” And “did you kick them?” The same questions I asked. If I caught one I would have definitely been flying and would have seriously taken some shots, fuck the danger.

Gully was there, helped me call my bank (about the bank card) and the cops (who came quickly to file a report) and it was useful but I ain’t getting back my ID or my old WU ID or my credit card or the small amount of cash I had. Or the business cards. I just hope they don’t use my money and buy G-Unit CD’s or Jay-Z’s Black Album. Buy something good, you stupid fucking kids. Clothes. 40’s. Weed. Notebooks for school. Resume paper. A tie.

I also hope they don’t become rappers and I become the inspiration for their lines about being stick-up kids or “the hustle,” because that shit is mad, mad contrived and crazy tired.

This is the first time I’ve cussed in this web log in a very long time. But probably not ever.