Who is John Galt?

“ And I was like 'you don't know who John Galt is' and he was like 'I'm so drunk dude, like I have no idea but I feel like I've heard of him,' and I was like 'dude, how have you NOT heard of John Galt, you fuping idiot?' " "Wow, dude, that's crazy."

 It was very late on a Tuesday night at the NYU bar, and they were desperately trying to show the world they were thoroughbred hipsters. They made sure that their fake glasses were extra fake to show their commitment to irony, and they each wore the style's centerpiece, extra skinny skinny jeans.

 It was winter time, so each young man had flannel on, and their stylized-messy hairdo had a little too much gel. This evening, they drank vodka, straight. They'd both recently tapped into the queer handbook which dictated that in order to stay skinny, one needed drink low calorie clear liquors, though neither one was ACTUALLY queer of course. As they got drunker, their exaggerated hand gestures became absurd, and they began cackling about how they could use a line or seven of coke.

 On their 3rd drink, one of the students had decided to start pronouncing the word "fucking" with a consonant sound that reassembled a hard "p" such that "fucked" sounded rather like "fuped." The other man, thinking that this syllable change was a new idiom of hipstersville rather than a breezy whim of an alcohol addled mind, seized upon it unquestioningly, and soon the fuping asshole professor who'd given them 1000 of pages of reading that week was so fuping annoying that he probably didn't even fuping notice that he'd fuping assigned the fuping exact same reading the week fuping before. As always happens in get togethers of this sort, the two expounded upon their knowledge of musical acts that exactly no one had heard of.

Presently, one man pretended that he had indeed heard of John Galt, a transgendered banjo yoddler from a suburb of Stockholm Sweden who had undergone a sex change to become a woman, but who still retained her birth name----a salvific form of irony.

 Suddenly, Ashton Bilard, their African-American friend, walked in.

 "Hey Ashton, dude, I was just saying that the fuping guys at the show last night didn't even know who John Galt is."

 Ashton smiled ironically, and adjusted his own fake glasses. "Who is John Galt?" he asked prophetically.

The Reunion

She scoots along in a walker that supports her heavy frame , and her ankles are swollen from scars she later tells me resulted from her diabetes. Everywhere she walks, she is tailed by a young teenager, whose expression is rather dour. We are at a place where there are very few people of color so the fact that the teen is black is noteworthy.  It's the Camp Hadley reunion.

“Hey," calls the big woman, “HEY! Was that you whistling over there?" I had indeed been whistling and so I respond in the affirmative . My response is the opening of Pandora's box.

“My name is Sara and this here is my niece Stacy." Stacy has conspicuously turned away from me (and from her aunt).

“Stacy,"commands the older woman, “come meet the young man. He won't bite." Turning back to me , Sara adds “her mother don't make her meet enough people, so she's real shy, but I won't just let her slink around. I tell it like it is see, but her mama don't do that." Before I can respond, Sara launches into a story.
“I came to camp in 1978 for the first time. My sister was the camp nurse at the time so I was visiting her. Fell in love with the place right then and there."

“Oh, how wonderful," I say, not quite sure what to make of this bizarre encounter.

"STACY," shouts the big woman, heedless to my meaningless platitudes, “stand in FRONT of me. You know I don't like it when I can't see you."

As the teenager grudgingly trudges in front of her aunt, Sara adds this nonsequetor “my whole family is big, all of us except my nephew. He's six feet tall and 130 pounds"

“Wow,"I chirp aimlessly.
"He's a stick," she continues, whimsically, and stares out onto the field in front of us.

“Well," thunders Sara, breaking out of her pensive moment, “this place is just so spiritual. I keep telling Stacy that she ought to be more talkative here. Everybody here is one big community."

“People are nice..." I lamely offer.

“So so so much spirit," she adds sitting heavily in her walker. “There are spirits right now. Indians right here."

"Indians?" I ask beginning to feel the hair on the back of my neck raise up. I look at Stacy who is still working hard to ignore me.

“Oh yes honey. Dancing on the field as we speak. They're celebrating ."

My crazy meter is going off , but I cannot help myself as I ask “So....are there MALEVOLENT spirits here as well?"

She nods her head very slowly and for once is silent. Stacy shifts her weight to her other foot and stares wordlessly at her aunt. She's interested. So am I.

“Down at the boathouse. When I first got here in '78, I was doing a tour of the place. As I got close to the docks, I froze and told my sister I wouldn't go any closer. Intense pain went up and down my spine. When I got back to the cabin, I took off my shirt and I had huge scratches up and down my back, mmhmm yes I did. Do you know what it was?"

I shake  my head, enraptured.
“It was the claws of Satan that got me. Straight outta hell. Oh yes. Let me tell you something.  Before camp was camp, the Indians used to live here. Well, one day, a white  man came while the men were hunting.  He raped all the woman and girls of the tribe and strung up all the boys. When the men came home and saw what had happened they found the white man, dragged him to where the current boathouse is, and did the Indian equivalent of ‘drawing and quartering.’ So now, that spirit lives in the boathouse, and for what he did, he became a conspirator of Satan's. Now, I'm not sure that spirit is still there. But I ain't never been over there since, no way."

She was nuts, I realized. But I was nervous all the same. I wondered how she had come to know the back story of the boathouse ghost but I decided to avoid this question. What did she want me to DO with this information? When, a few moments later she offered to tell me who my guardian angel was, I declined vehemently. 

"Your loss," she said casually, slowly scooting away.

I stared after her with the paradoxical urge to beg her to tell me more and to flee from her as fast as I could.

Animal Farm

She stared at her prize, gleaming in the soft light that marked the beginning of a beautiful pastoral morning in springtime. She'd won; she'd really done it.

When it'd been announced that she had become the first repeat all Ohio champion, she'd nearly swooned in relief. For months she'd worked her recipe to a precise science. She'd studied with well known brew masters. She'd investigated large operations in the area and spent hours in the local University archives trying to glean any speck of information from yesteryear that would once again set her brew above the rest.

The prize money would allow her to continue the small brewery operation she had going in Medina, and she was sure to have yet another surge in business; she might have to actually hire some extra hands. Her next effort would be the national competition and she felt fairly confident that, with some more work, she could win it. She would be empress of beers yet.

It wasn't the business of beer that had kept her up at night though; this she was quite sure of. It was something less tangible. Something foreboding. Her head was spinning, and she felt vaguely nauseous. She did often get migraines, but she what she felt was more sinister.

It was not unlike the feeling she'd gotten early one afternoon nearly 5 years ago, while she'd begun the fermentation  process  in the kitchen of the small house in the country, with the blue shingles. She'd been intent on her work, when out of nowhere she felt her heart plummet, as though she'd been kicked in the stomach. So sudden was the immense worry, that she'd had to sit down, her breaths coming in labored bursts. All day she'd been somewhat queasy, but this was something more...well...intesne.  Sweat had dripped down her brow, and her whole body began to quiver in some sort of anticipatory pain. Suddenly, her thighs were drenched. 

She'd been too frightened to call her brother who lived 4 miles north, and wasn't about to call 911; she didn't have health insurance. As it was, she was living in the house of a high school friend and her husband, but both were at work. Her parents in nearby Mansville, had recently pushed her from the nest when she had voiced interest in making beer. They assumed that she'd been corrupted by the devil and after one of her deviant uncles had introduced her to bud light on the night of her high school graduation. They figured that, since she didn't have a job, and was too stupid for college (she'd always been called "slow" in school), she'd just have to make it on her own somehow.

When her son, Jake,had been born that afternoon those years ago, she had assumed that the devil was indeed working his way through her to punish her for all of her sins, past present and future. In absolute terror and incredulity she'd somehow managed to push the boy out, shrieking all the way.

She hadn't known she was pregnant; she wasn't  even completely sure how one even became pregnant, though she had her suspicions.  She'd always been heavy, so her hosts never wondered at her burgeoning shape.

Now, as dawn broke across the valley, she smiled in recollection, though her unease was still with her. Her friend had thrown her out that very night, incensed by her indiscretion. The boy was just like hids daddy, even in his first days, with his blue eyes and easy nature (he never cried, even in birth). He was golden hued; a few shades lighter than his mama.

After that, she'd made due somehow. Her brother and  his wife had taken her in, and their then two year old son had become like a brother to Jake. 

She'd made a small living then selling her homemade beet beer, a brew she called Fire. She worked hard at it and did well. When she'd won the all county and then all state the first time, business had picked up considerably, and she had bought a little house of her own, about a mile from her brother's family, overlooking expansive farmland an forest. 

Yes, life was good, and it had been for some time. Yet the feeling that something was about to radically change stayed with her all night, and she had been awake, wide awake. 

Suddenly a quiet knocking came at the door. It was so light that she thought it had come from inside the home and she called out to see if Jake was awake. Instead of her son's voice, however, she heard a woman's.

Without thinking she snatched up her trophy and held to her as though it would protect her against the inevitable doom at her door at 5:52am.

“Anna," called the voice through her door.

“ It's open," she croaked. Out in this country, there was need to lock locked the door.

She observed that her old friend looked gaunt. Her blond hair looked unkempt, and she had labored breathing. Anna hadn't seen the woman since she'd been thrown out five years to ago, and she'd certainly never seen her carry a hunting rifle before. 

“I just.... just wanted... wanted you to know that your boy's daddy... He dead."

"You shot 'em?"

"I did. He done fathered one too many nigger bastards."

Anna nodded slowly. He had always likeed dark skinned girls, and it was rumored that he'd drive as far as Cleveland to get it.  

"You gonna shoot me?"

The white woman seemed indecisive, and she hardly moved. Then she slowly shook her head, no. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she sat next to Anna, convulsing grief, laying the gun by the door.

Anna took her friend in her arms, and held her as distant sirens pierced the beautiful sunrise. 

In a fog, she could feel her trophy tumbling out of her hands, shattering to a million fragmented pieces.

WESTERN BEEF

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

 I live at 134th street and 3rd avenue, only a couple of blocks from your store location at 301 Morris Ave. This Western Beef is the primary grocery option in the area, and I have been impressed by the recent upgrades to the store. The new facility is sure to improve the shopping experience of the community.

 I write, however, regarding a matter of disrespect that took place the on the evening of 2/22/13, at approximately 6:45pm. I came into the store as I do many evenings after work in my work outfit; dark slacks, a cardigan (covered by a black peacoat) and a modest sized backpack. I am a teacher and use this bag to carry my student’s assignments as well as my personal computer and tablet. At the door, I was asked to give my bag over to two men standing at the entrance. One wore wrinkled blue jeans, and an old blue sweatshirt. The other was an older gentleman who was unshaven. He wore a black ski cap, and what looked like an old black jacket.

 I give these details to illustrate why I had reservations in handing my bag over to be “protected.” These men, complete strangers, did not bear store insignia and were not in uniform. Why in the world would I trust these individuals with my expensive personal equipment?

 Frankly, I find the policy of taking bags to be absurd. I imagine that the store institutes this policy in order to avoid larceny by your customers. I wonder, however, what stops any individual from dipping into the store and absconding with as many of the bags as they could? The bags aren’t locked away and are perfectly visible from the street. They are located near the door and are not vigilantly guarded; when I walked in, the men “protecting” them were deeply involved in conversation. Quite obviously, the store invests its own interests at the expense of its customers.

 Despite the problem I see with the store’s policy, I would take less umbrage with it if it didn’t feel as though it were one that was arbitrarily enforced. Indeed, I’ve walked into the store many times after work carrying my backpack, without being stopped at all. One of my roommates, who frequents the store with a bag regularly, has never been stopped.

 What made this particular trip to Western Beef disturbing was the outright disrespect that I endured from the “door attendants” (pseudo guards?) that I assume are in your store’s employ. When I asked how it was they determined which bags to check and which bags to let pass, I was asked if I “thought I was Obama,” a remark that I believe was meant to invalidate my earnest questions as posturing. When I asked if the President of the United States would be allowed to wear a backpack into the store, I was told to leave.

 At this juncture, I asked for the manager and was told that I was “speaking to him.” Given the man’s appearance and lack of identification, I have serious reservations that I was indeed speaking to the store’s on-site authority, and I took this as yet another sign that I was being completely written off.

 My roommates and I have spent thousands of dollars at Western Beef. We have been consistent paying customers. Why am I target of a policy that makes customers feel like prisoners? Moreover, why would anybody in his right mind submit his personal items to persons as those described above, when there is nothing about them that signifies their affiliation with the store? How could I take this policy seriously when only some people are checked while others just walk in? And most importantly, why are my concerns not taken seriously?

 Western Beef’s motto, “We know the neighborhood” is deeply ironic when I take into account both the policy of checking bags, and the egregious treatment I’ve received. I wish I could say that this is a one time offense, but I must be honest; I, and others of the community have been treated as though we are not valued as customers. I’ve been rudely addressed in check-out lines, and ignored when I’ve asked questions regarding the price of items within the store.

 I’m deeply upset and disappointed. I find it profoundly deflating that shopping at your store is such an ordeal because this IS my neighborhood. I suppose that I’ll be going to the Pathmark in East Harlem as I used to; I’ve never encountered such problems there. I thought, however, that it was in the interest of your store and the community you serve to let you know a serious concern.

 Sincerely,

Dark Apologist

MPH

"I just want you to be happy, in this life and the next"says the robber. He stands over me with his steel toe pressing against my cheek, my turquoise backpack in his hand.

He takes out my computer and sighs.

“Mph" I protest mildly, but he only nods reverentially.

Later, when he's done, he kicks me in the gut and walks away, disappearing into the park foliage.

Groaning, I sit up. My back, which had been pressed against the damp hard mud of a offshoot foot path within the park screams out in pain, as though my very spine has been twisted in half.

I taste blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue moments before, and I am suddenly aware of the warm close scent of piss that has blotched my khakis. The agony of those long moments I spent on the ground has my muscles quivering.

"I want to help you be happy" the man had kept saying as he had brutalized me. “Renounce all things and Praise the Lord!"

I had shouted out to save my life but his quick and heavy punches and his absolute manhandling completely disarmed me.

Along with my computer and backpack, he had taken my wallet and phone, making sure to verbally ascertain the specifications and contents of each item.

Then he had turned to his real duty.

“Will you renounce Satan? Will you say that you will become a follower of Christ and accept that He is Lord and Savior?"

For what must have been a full 20 minutes, the man prayed  on top of me. He asked that God forgive my wanton ways, and declared that the evil that resided within me could and  would be exorcised. He  thanked the Lord  for using him as an instrument of His Divine Will, and thanked Him for bestowing him such gifts as the Samsung Galaxy III, the MacBook Air with enhanced retina display, and the wallet with $88 cash and freshly filled monthly metro card.

As I stumble out of the park, I wonder at the fact that he didn't praise God for my bio chemistry data set, and my field notes.

When I finally make it to the street, I scan the passing cars. Hailing a cab is obviously out of the question;I haven't any money.

Perhaps I'll flag down the police. But... What would I say? That I had become thirsty for the carnal after the late shift at the lab? That the rawness of making it happen in the park after dark with strangers turns me on? That what I thought was going to be a routine cruising had gone oh so horribly wrong?  No, no, I could certainly not speak to the police.

Still though, I'm miles from home and this spring air is chilly. My jacket is skilled and ruffled, and I know I must look disturbing. I call out to a man nearby in a black peacoat, begging for bus fare. The dog he walks issues a low growl, and the man hurriedly crosses the street. I try to wave down an elderly lady with a cane, and she shrieks, loudly telling me to back away.

A sad realization comes to the fore of my frazzled mind. I am young, male,  and black, and I appear to be utterly destitute. There will be no one to help me.   Hanging my head, I begin to the trudge north, my burden heavy in my soul.

Basil's Spring

The trees in the square bent ever so slightly in the lightly blowing wind on the avenue by the bridge on the lawn. Flowering weeds dotted the city lawn and a smell of earth that was vaguely out of place filled the air. Here a black Labrador or a Golden Retriever sailed through the air to catch a gently floating Frisbee or a streaking tennis ball. Somewhere a slender mother and cradled her cracky child, nursing the babe through his first springtime allergies. Sensitive daring teenagers made moves toward second base behind the light foliage of the square, their hearts seeming to beat in unison with the song that the caroling blue jays had been humming all afternoon, and a hotdog vendor called out that today he would also be selling roasted peanuts.

Love was so palpably in the air on this April day and Basil relished every moment of it.  She loudly counted the daffodils coming up near the blanket on which she sat, and babbled to her mother about her friend Lisa.

Lisa was a sophisticated second grader. She was ballerina and a princess, a REAL ONE. She'd proved it by bringing in a purple crown with with glitter on top.

Basil's mother nodded her head to the din of her daughter's words. She smiled lightly at the mention of Lisa's crowns and dresses and jewels, and she assured her daughter that the girl was only pretending.  She was distracted, but little Basil didn't notice. She chattered on and on through peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pink lemonade.

Suddenly, Basil was yanked to her feet and lifted high into the air, spinning around and around, head over heels. She gave a shriek of surprise and her sandwich tumbled to the ground.

When the world turned right side up again, she found that she had a headache, and that her stomach hurt. She began to bawl.

“Don't cry my little angel," said the hulking man, his bass voice rumbling like thunder over the red clay hills of Georgia.

Basil only cried harder when she saw that her momma had also begun to cry, and she was shocked when the big man went to her and hugged and kissed her. She'd never seen a man do that to mamma.

After what seemed like an hour of embrace, momma grabbed Basil's hand and brought her before the towering giant in green and brown.

“ Say 'welcome home' to you're daddy," she gushed.

Almost 26

I am eeking out the last bit of healthcare I can get under my parents insurance. I'll be 26 in 10 days and as an artist, I haven't clue as to when I might have a stable enough job that would give me such benefits.  My back hurts and I figure,  when's the next  time I'm going to see about my that?!

When I arrive at the doctor's office,  I'm feeling very proud of myself. I've navigated the through the local insurance that covers my family to find the national arm that will be accepted in New York.  All of this information I gleaned from calling the different arms of my mom's insurance company and closely studying the several websites. The fact that the appointment I had set up had not been broken furthermore made me very confident in my navigation of the health care system.  I feel awesome.

The administrators at this doctor's office are pleasant and efficient (and, I might add,  not bad to look at). I confidently trumpet my name and expect that they'll whisk me to the doctor immediately ; after all, I'm a healthcare Juggernaut!  Ignoring my imperious tone, the lovely administrator calls the insurance number I've provided. After a few moments she shakes her head at me. "Its a fax number, you got another one?"

I have to admit I'm feeling slightly crestfallen at this slight pit fall; but, no matter. This is what smartphones are for, aren't they! I produce another number.  This time, she's put on hold and tells me to take a seat.  I strut to the nearby waiting area and yawn. This is gonna be a piece of cake. When, a few moments later as she's shaking her head slowly, I begin to feel annoyed.  Perhaps she's new on the job. Surely she knows I have health insurance.  "Sir,  the doctor you're seeing is out of network.  While you DO have coverage for that, your deductible will be around $700." As she says this,  I wonder how I didn't notice the fact that her left eye is slightly bigger than her right.

Perhaps it is this glitch in an otherwise perfect body that is causing her to a make things up. I must have looked mildly stupid because she felt the need to repeat herself. Loudly.  This time she wonders if I'd like to see the doctor despite the expense.  Yea.  The mental doctor. I mumble that I suppose I'll see someone at another time and turn from the desk. I feel the sympathetic eyes of patients glance at me, and one even nods at me in solidarity. I have been vanquished by the American health care system like so many before. Maybe I'll move to Canada to get my back checked out...

King Midas

“U think Midas was written by niggas who was scared a money?”

“Midas”

“Yea, the king. Everything he touched turned to gold, u know the story.”

“Right, right.”

“Them niggas  who wrote that shit was scared man. They ain’t never known what it is to be rich.”

“Maybe.”

“Naw, ain’t no maybe about it. Prolly was written by niggas who had money but didn’t know how to invest or somethin’.”

“iShares from BlackRock?”

“i-fuckin’-Shares from BlackRock. That’s the shit they NEEDED man.”

The two laughed as they made their way through the Bronx. They’d been doing some financial planning and had just come from a pizzeria on 149^th street that they would shortly be acquiring. Now, they were on their way to Yankee stadium to enjoy the game with one of their chief executives.

“So, what are we tellin’ him,” asked Ernesto, popping a piece of Winterfresh gum into his mouth to combat the garlic he’d doused his pizza in.  It was rare that his brother joked with him, and he thought that now was as good a time as any to understand what exactly the plan was.

“It needs to be clean, “ Malik began, accenting the word clean by clapping his hand against his spring jacket. “When your product good, your product good, and everyone wants a piece. But I’m getting’ the feelin’ we bein’ ripped off, AND our shit ain’t right.”

Earesto sighed in his usual way. “You makin’ shit up bro. Business is good-“

“And I wanna it to be even better,” concluded Malik, his face made up in a determined frown.

Ernesto shrugged his shoulders and tried another tactic.

“You heard somethin’ I don’t know? I know Don is tryin’ to take us out in Harlem”

“Fuck Harlem, he can have it,” Malik said with piercing force. “I want the Upper East Side. Upper west. Shit, I’ll take the WHOLE fuckin’ east and west and STOP at Harlem, just like white folks.”

“Midas,” observed Ernesto, earnestly.

“Yea nigga, pure GOLD. We wanna ACTAULLY matter? Then our shit gotta be on point.”

Ernesto could see his brother’s reasoning. Still, he protested.

“But niggas out there…they don’t know the difference. We could sell the same shit an’ charge more and be legit.”

Malik was violently shaking his head.

“You ever talk to Israel up in Bronxville?”

“Yea.”

“That shit he got…it’s premium yo. People be bangin’ down doors cuz what he got is SPECIAL. THAT’S what I’M talkin’ about.”

Ernesto threw up his hands in frustration.

“So why don’t you just pimp HIS shit if it’s so good!”

Malik smiled enigmatically and Ernesto suddenly saw the real purpose of their meeting at Yankee Stadium.

“You can’t.”

“I will.”

“I don’t want you too.”

“I don’t need ur permission.”

“I started this shit, I got a say.”

“NIgga, you playin games. Before me you was beefin’ wit’ small time niggas in Mott Haven, and now we talkin’ IRAs and shit. I’m the ONLY one that matters here.”

Ernesto sulked as the din of the game could be heard. They were in line to get their tickets scanned.

The honest truth was that he knew Malik was right. Ernesto had been surprised when his younger brother had agreed to join him in the “family business”. He’d assumed that going to that fancy college would have changed him immeasurably. Truth be told, it HAD changed him. Somehow, Malik was now bolder than he’d ever been. In a year since he’d been out of college, Malik had quadrupled their revenue, and had enlisted some of his college buddies to manage their sudden and immense cash flow. Still though, Ernesto wondered if his little brother really knew the game they were trying to enter. 

“He’s gonna try an’ kill us,” said Ernesto looking around to make sure nobody had heard.

“Not at a Yankees game he ain’t,” laughed Malik.

“He been my supplier for 3 years,” begged Ernesto.

Malik only shrugged. 

“We got troops on the ground man. The upgrade of product is worth a little blood. It’s the nature of this business.”

The crowd roared as The Golden King and his wary vassal made their way to their box seats. A homerun.  

There was a war to instigate and there was no place better than the home of the Bronx Bombers to begin it. They were incorporated.

Black Princeton Tiger

I’ll never forget my first days on Princeton’s campus as a freshman. I had spent the week before school getting to know some of my classmates on a service project in Trenton that had been organized by the University, where we painted dilapidated church poverty centers and fed the homeless.  We discussed at the length the problem of inner-city joblessness, teen pregnancy,  and the immense school drop-out rate and bonded over our deep sense of caring.  We promised that as Princetonians, we would remember our poor brothers and sisters only 2 miles from our storied campus, and we were earnest too. I’m certain, however, that most of us in my group never went to Trenton again in our four years, save to pass through the train station on the way to Philly.

By the time I got to campus, I was itching to explore college life for real, unfettered by poverty and blight. I was pumped for the drinking and the revelry of “hooking up” (something I’d never done in high school) and was anxious to get it on in the Gothic behemoth University edifices.

Like any overeager frosh (that’s what they're called on campus), I over-did it. I was hospitalized on the night of the first day of classes, with a BAC of .245 (that figure is forever etched in my mind) and I would spend days recovering.

My twin brother, a freshman at Swarthmore, was incredulous by my wanton over-the-top indulgence, and my parents, Princetonians themselves, were deeply concerned (though my mom managed to keep her voice steady as I delivered the news that I’d spent the night in emergency care). I still own the 4 page front and back hand-written note that my dad sent me, along with a family picture and a solo framed portrait of my then three-year-old sister.

The psychologist at the campus health center asked me if I was trying to kill myself to which I replied a contemptuous (if groggy) “No.”  My own brother asked if Princeton had somehow, on the first day, ramped up the level of work to a fever pitch that was utterly unmanageable, but that wasn’t it.  My best friend at Princeton, who at the time didn’t drink but had cared for me and been at my side even as I went into a drug induced slumber, didn’t ask. He could feel it. The place, teeming with gaudy expectation and grandeur. The University oozing with prestige and immense wealth. The Campus, whose very orange and black banners seemed to announce ostentatious pretention.  It was oddly overwhelming. 

I say odd because of what and where I come from. It’s a strange thing to grow up a generation after parents who had nothing-----who Horatio Algered their way into being the highly successful people they are today. I’ve really only known upper-eschlon communities in my life.  Princeton (as a child).  Alpharetta, Georgia. Shaker Heights, Ohio. I went to camp with children from Darien and Greenwich and Rye. You might say I was groomed to be elite.

Still, though, Princeton took the wealth I’d seen as a child and raised the bar. It was more than wealth. It was power. Everybody on campus was tall. I mean EVERYBODY. At 6 feet, I felt slightly below average.  Most were fit (some absurd percentage were athletes), and even in slightly yesteryear’s Princeton ( I graduated in 2009), one still rubbed shoulders with a Rockefeller or five.  I got the impression that I was going to school with “the sky” from the expression “The sky is the limit,” and could feel inadequacy creeping around me.

Naked power, when tinted with the recklessness of youth, is frightening and awesome, and I saw some pretty spectacular collapses, as a result.  I remember an acquaintance of mine getting heavily into cocaine, and seeing her become a skeletal hyped up simulacrum of herself. She was a talented singer and her academics remained stellar, but she and I both knew she was out of control.

Because she was white, I never did worry about her. I figured daddy and mommy would, should she ever hit rock bottom, bail her out and coach her through a nice upper crust rehab program, such that she’d speak of her college days with pip and earnest nostalgia.

When one of my black friends, however, began getting heavy into alcohol and pills and whatever else, I worried. He was like me, a black alumni child, who had grown up in privileged communities.  I suspected that like me, the lifeline that could be cast out by his parents was shorter than that of some of our classmates; way shorter.  Eventually, my friends and I (mostly black) staged an intervention where we wept over a serious problem as we saw it, and we even called our friend’s parents.  We were afraid that the crux of our buddy’s problem was that he had been duped into believing that the wealth of Princeton and it’s sheer STUFF belonged to HIM.  Whereas many of my black friends recognized that we could not claim any part of Princeton until AFTER we had graduated, this one felt, like many of our white classmates, that he was already entitled. 

In this way, Princeton wasn’t mine. I was so conscious of the opportunity afforded to me as a consequence of my race, even as a double legacy, that I was focused, so very very focused, on making it through. It was an attitude of a lot of my black brothers and sisters on campus; we didn’t have time for addiction and stupid shit.

Because of that, some of us missed out on some great stupid shit. Many of us didn’t involve ourselves in the Eating  Clubs, Princeton’s prestigious and singular version of frats. We traveled together, roomed together, partied together, and often did not do any clubs save for the ones that had overt racial ties. We inured ourselves to the shit around us because the consequences of failing to make it seemed very pricy, and not just financially.

That being said, I think I was lucky.  Somehow or another, I got it into my head that I wanted to do a cappella, and I started a soul a cappella group with good friends. That experience in itself allowed me to forge connections with people through music, and craft something that had my own personal and unique imprint.  In a place that’s big into history, this was a huge deal for me.

In addition, I got to sing around the world with another of University’s singing groups, along with people who I certainly would never have known, and I think my 3 years doing that was instrumental in enriching my Princeton experience. I became a member of the a club, took a risk and acted in a 6 hour play, and won many many many games of Beruit (Beer Pong,  for all you undignified fools).  I lived a pretty full Princeton experience. I think. 

Only 4 years out of school, I’m still making meaning of all the pomp and circumstance of the circus of Old Nassau.  The power and the wealth, hubris and chutzpa, paradox and idiosyncrasies.

 What a strange and awesome thing it is to be a Black Princeton Tiger.  

The DL

“Hey man,” Brian says to his buddy, as they drink their fourth beer at the bar at Fredrick Douglas and 118^th street, “How you been?”

Micah shrugs his narrow shoulders and gives a wry smile. He’s been pensive all night.

“I don’t know. Fine I guess.”

The two take a swig of their beer, and glance up at the television screen above them. The Nets are absolutely smashing the Heat, causing the commentators to be giddy about the team’s surprising mid-season run.

Suddenly, a gust of wind accosts the two young men.  A short, stocky, light skinned man wearing a light blue sweatshirt, a gray sweatpants walks in. He looks around and  then heads to the bar, sitting two barstools away from Micah. 

“Gimme three rum an cokes” he says in a quiet tenor voice, his eyes glancing around appraisingly.  

“Expecting friends?” inquires the bartender.  The short man shakes his head no.

Brian yawns loudly, and takes down more of his Corona. He’s exhausted.

“I saw your ex over the weekend,” he says to his friend.

“Yea?” asks Micah.

“Yea.”

The two are silent for a moment as the bartender passes three cocktails to the light skinned brotha at the end of the bar.

“She says hi,” Brian continues, lazily.

Micah nods.

“She tell you everything?”

“Everything?”
“I know you guys are good friends...”

“Yea. She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”

“…Oh.”

The Net’s lead is insurmountable and the bench of both sides is playing now. The bartender changes the channel to the NHL Network. The Devils are on.

“Hey,” calls the stocky figure. “Y’all want these?”  He pushes the 2 rum and coke toward them.

Micah and Brian look at one another.   Brian shrugs, and the two grab the drinks.

“Cheers” says the generous man.

“Cheers” reply the two men at the bar.

“You guys ever try special K?” asks the short man, after a moment.  The three had silently been pondering the 2^nd period of game.

“You move fast,” Brian chuckles, taking a swig of the rum and coke.

Micah stares at the floor and says nothing.

“Three more,” calls the short man, having downed his rum an coke in a single gulp.

“Woah,” says Brian, surprised.

This time, the man with the sweatpants laughs. “I got you yo. Chill.”

Brian looks like he wants to say something, but he can’t think of what.  Micah tentatively takes a swig of the first cocktail, and washes it down with his beer.

“What do you do?” the light skinned man asks, looking deep in Micah’s eyes.

“Me?” Micah says dumbly, struggling to look away. He hadn’t meant to look at the man at all.

“He bad at English?” blue sweatshirt addresses Brian.

“Aw, be nice,” Brian says in an amused voice. He’s getting a little drunk.

“I’m a writer,” mumbles Micah, feeling a little embarrassed.  “Poetry.”

“That’s nice man.”

“He needs INSPIRATION,” Brian says ponderously, finishing his rum and coke, just as the fresh drinks arrive.

“I  don’t need-…..I should go,” Micah says , “I got work tomorrow pretty early.”

“Woah! Woah! You got a LEAST another drink to finish!” Sweatpants swags, in his easy manner.

Micah takes a deep breath. He’s feeling uncomfortable.

“Your deal?” Brain asks blue sweatshirt.

The short man shrugs twice. Brian gets it.

“I’m gonna go pee,” he says unconvincingly, and stumbles away from the bar, toward the back of the restaurant.

“Your friend seems cool” the short man says. He’s moved over a seat. Micah can smell his aftershave.

“Yea,” Micah says uncertainly.

“You always uptight?”

“I dunno.”

“You gotta chill man. You’ll get an ulcer.”

“Ok.”

Sweatpants laugh openly at Micah’s “ok.”

“Your girlfriend know?”

“Huh?”

“Did she find out?”

“I…what are…you.”

“Never mind.”

Micah takes a huge drink of his drink. He can feel his heart beat quickening as little shorty’s hand rests gently , almost imperceptibly, on his leg.

“You’re friend won’t miss us, will he?”

Micah lowers his head.

“I got a lotta good shit at my place. Come on.”

Shorty with the blue sweatshirt waits patiently, as the Devils score yet another goal.  

“Ok,” whispers Micah.  

He’s terrified. He’s elated. He’s ashamed.  

American Spade

I'm holding the ace of spades. It's the only spade I've got, but it's the trump of trumps. We need to make 6 books to win this game, and my heart is beat beating to the beat of drum. Lately, Ke$ha has been a staple of my subway train routine. Something about her flat metallic delivery and the message of self destruction just gets me.

 DAMMIT. My electronic partner broke spades early, and has now put down the King. I have no choice but to trump his trump. There is no reneging in tablet spades.

 "I AM A FUCKIN' AMERICAN, YO, IMMA MOTHA-FUCKIN-LOVER OF THE U FUCKIN S A!"

 Even Ke$ha is having trouble competing with the tall thin man with the long gray ski cap, and the old black jacket. He's wearing khakis that are frayed in the cuffs and sports faded charcoal Timberland boots.

 "DONT GIT IT TWISTED, CUZ YOU MISSIN THE TRUTH THAT I AM A FUCKIN' U S FUCKIN A CITIZEN," he shouts at the top of his lungs. He's rocking back and forth on his heels, swaying as the train races uptown. His eyes are blazing brilliantly.

 UGH! We got 4 books instead of 5, and our opponents have won the game.

 "SON, YOU DONT KNOW NOTHIN ABOUT THIS HERE USA BORN NIGGA, NOTHIN! I'M OF THE USA! YOU SEEN THE STATUE OF LIBERTY? YOU SEEN THAT BIG ASS THING UP THERE? FREEEEDOM FREEEEEDOM. USA!"

 I lift my eyes as flecks of his spittle flake onto my jacket. It's my fault that I have become the object of this man's rant, but I'm more than a little awed that he's kept it up so venomously since we both got on in the lower east side.

 It started when I accidentally stepped on his foot when I entered the train at 14th street.

"Oh, Pardon me," said I as I sat down across from him. Little did I know that I would be starting a nationalist revolt.

 "NIGGAS WALKIN' 'ROUND HERE WIT HIS EXPENSIVE ASS SHIT TALKING FRENCH AND GERMAN AND SHIT AND HATIN AMERICA. WELL THAT DONT SIT RIGHT WIT ME. I. LOVE. AMERICA."

 The weekend trains are going local uptown, and we've just arrived at 77th. A white woman who has just gotten on ignores my enormous headphones and leans into me. "He's crazy, isn't he? Oh my goodness gracious. Crazy crazy, huh?" I lift my headphone and nod slightly.

 "At the hospital I work at, we had a patient just like him. You want to know what we did? We just ignored him until he calmed down." I smile vaguely and say nothing, taking her advice.

 "WE GOT INDIANS AND PUERTO-RICANS AND MY MAN OVER THERE WHO IS KOREAN ALL BECAUSE THIS IS FUCKING AMERICA. I MEAN LOOK AT THE FREEDOM FUCKING TOWER. IS THERE ANYTHING MORE USA?"

 I've started another game of spades. I'm on a three game losing streak so I decide that I'm going to bid conservatively, at least through the first couple of hands.

 "Isn't this just so sad? His brain is just so addled," the white woman says. She's grabbing my arm now and seems desperate to have me look at her.

 "AND AND MY PEOPLE WERE BROUGHT IN CHAINNNNNNNSSSSSS MOTHEA FUCKA CHAINS! 600 YEARS AGO, WE WAS BROUGHT IN CHAINS AND THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING. IT'S BLACK HISTORYYYY MONTH IN THE U FUCKING S A! WE WAS CHAINNNSS!"

 The man seems to be losing his thread and Ke$ha's voice is beginning to grate my nerves. This old woman's leg is now resting on mine, and I can tell she wants to play footsie. It MUST be time to get off the train. As the train slows at 86th street, I breathe a sigh of relief.

 "GODDDD BLESSS AMMMERRRICCAAAAA" I blast in an earth shaking baritone. The monologuing man stops for a moment,  and our eyes lock in understanding. We are partners in this game of Spades. We are the trump of trumps.

Scholastic Achievement Test

Thump Thump.

You hear that? It's the pounding of the pavement of the thousands of us. Of the millions of us.

Thump Thump. Thump Thump.

You hear that? Its the sound of the elevated hearts of thousands of us. Of the millions of us. 

"X is 2," nods one of us in dulcet quiet tones.

"X is 2," nods panicked teen, as though he's always known.   

Thump Thump. Thump Thump.

You hear that? It's  the sound of a million schemes. Of packaged deals and discounts. Just refer us to the queen. 

We come in suits and tidy boots, we come in all array.

Long live the test that pays the bills
We'll thump thump everyday.

Astoria to Jackson Heights, from Broolyn to the Bronx.

Thump Thump Thump Thump on the run, til night comes close to dawn.

Sometimes we are counselors,

Sometimes we'll serve as priest.

Just pay us proper coinage, we'll do all the in between

Vocabulary workout

Grammar Listerine.

Reading comprehension baby always reigns supreme.

Algebraic demons. Geometric fiends.
Trigomatic wizards thumping  arithmetic mean.

Thump Thump. Thump Thump. 

You hear that? It's the pounding of the pavement of the thousands of us. Of the millions of us. Thumping everyday. 

Actors and musicians 

we're born to play the play. 

Thump Thump. Thump.

You Hear that? It's the sound of the zoo.

Adrenaline gone crazy
The addy kangaroo 

These parents want it easy 

their determined not to lose. 

Thump. Thump. Thump Thump. Thump. 

Beg Borrow and Steal to Rock

Crossing the long legs of his lanky frame, the music mogul looked casually at the two young men staring at him in rapt attention. He leisurely adjusted his nine-hundred dollar glasses frames, and phlegmatically cleared his throat.  With purposeful lethargy, he reached for his iPad and scrolled the screen with his fingers. Turning his head ever so slightly, he observed his Starbucks Latte, extra foam, two Splendas.  With delicate precision, he stretched for it, careful to maintain his serene pose while balancing his tabular computer. With two conspicuous slurps of his coffee, he addressed the young men.

           

“Well,” he drawled, careful not to hold either man’s eyes for more than a moment, “It seems that the synths aren’t quite right. Let me ask before I get too far into this: Is this song supposed to be top 40?”

The two men looked nervously glanced at one another, and laughed wryly.

           

“Yea, that was the plan…You know, sorta like Ke$ha or Rihanna or something,” Anthony answered, his brother Wellington nodding next to him.

“Mm,” slurped the mogul, adjusting his iPad to better view the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his emaciated assistant slip silently through the door.

           

“Jim,” he called syruply, “I think there’s sugar in this coffee. Would you go back to the ‘Bucks and get me one with Splenda? Thanks man.”

As Jim scurried out, the mogul swiveled back to the boys, careful to move with diligent slowness.  The two boys leaned eagerly forward on the brown leather couch.

           

“Guys, I think your both talented and its awesome that your going for it,” the mogul breezed unconvincingly.

“ You remind me of me and Alex when we were getting started.”

The mogul never lost and opportunity to talk about the success he and his writing partner had had over the years.

“We came to the city during the 80s, right when the drum machine was getting big,” he mused thoughtfully.

“I remember we wrote this killer tune back then, oh man it was hot….it started sorta like DO-DOKAH-DO-DO-DOKAH!” The mogul sung with clear nasal precision.

“We didn’t know it at the time, but we basically created the New Jack Swing sound,” the mogul shrugged indifferently.

The assistant noiseless entered the room with a new latte, generating an unctuous “Thanks Man” from the mogul.

“Honestly though, the days of creating new material are over,” the mogul continued after a moment of scrolling his iPad and blowing over his hot coffee.

“You’re not gonna find stuff that’s overly...deviant, if you know what I mean. 

           

Anthony and Wellington didn’t have the slightest clue what the mogul was saying, but nodded vigorously anyway.  Anthony had set up this meeting. He had interned for the mogul’s production company in his senior year of college and had become enchanted by the behind-the-scenes view of the pop music creative process.  After graduation, he and his older brother Wellington, who was also a musician, had begun writing pop music of their own, and were looking for writing tips…or maybe even a record deal, if the mogul liked their stuff well enough.  Still, they were realists and had come in with low expectations.  What they were hearing, however, was not remotely what they had expected.

“Take or example that hit Alex and I wrote for Rixi Stephens,” the mogul yawned.

“Do you know how we got that? No, of course you don’t. Well, we basically listened to everything out on the radio and copied what we heard. I would say that we reinterpreted existing music, but that would be giving us to much credit.”

           

After a pregnant pause in which the mogul seemed glued to the screen on his lap, Wellington erupted.

“You mean you STEAL your material from other people?!”

“Yes,” the mogul answered laconically, openly laughing at the discomfort on the men’s faces.

           

“Good musicians borrow, great musicians steal, haven’t you heard that before?”

The brothers stared vacantly.

           

“Listen fellas, the synth in your tune is off, the vocals aren’t compressed or auto-tuned, your side-chain bass is all wrong, and your lyrics are too coherent. And I got all that after 30 seconds of listening to your shit,” the breathed, rattling off his points between sips of his Latte.

Silence descended upon the room, save for the mogul’s occasional tap of the iPad.

           

“Will there be anything else?” the mogul closed, not bothering to untether his gaze from the electronic device on his lap

Anthony and Wellington both stood up awkwardly, as Jim ushered them hurriedly out of the room.

           

“How’d it go,” Jim asked, his gaunt features twisted in concentrated interest.

           

“Well,” Anthony sighed, “I’m not sure.”

Wellington remained silent for a minute and shook his head.

           

“I think…I think he said we have a hit,” he gushed, his face turned toward the open door of the mogul’s studio.

He felt both vague disgust, and reverent awe.

I Fuckin' Hate Jesus

"I fuckin' hate Jesus," I tell the young man with raincoat and backpack that looks as though it's seen brighter days.

 He looks at me with a rueful expression that more than admits that he knows that I'm right.

 "Eight days. Eight fucking days and NOTHING! NADA, man, NADA" I blast, gathering steam.

 We're walking toward the center and the young man decides to stop at the Halal cart. I decide to get the lamb over rice. He takes a long moment to consider his options. Then, crinkling his eyes in his usual way, he shakes his head no. He's not hungry after all.

 "It's not that I'm sayin' he should have no role in his life or whatever," I say in between mouthfuls of the delicious heap in the styrofoam container, "it's just that...I dunno man, he got no right."

 The young man shakes his head is commiseration. Our pace has slowed considerably and the thick humid air smells of rain. A thunderstorm is coming for sure.

 "I mean, he walked right into my place like he owned it. Like he OWNED him!" I've crushed my late lunch and am now working on the complimentary diet coke.

 "Kendra gave him a key I guess, and I'm thinkin' why in the HELL would she do that? He got outta jail, what, 2 weeks ago? You really gonna let a fuckin' rapist or whateva git all up in ur space?!"

 I burp emphatically as we wait in front of a traffic light. A single drop of rain falls on my head. The young man next to me takes out an umbrella.

 "Just marched in and said he was gonna take his son. Says it just like that. 'He my boy, he should be with his father.' "

 I toss the can on the ground and pull up my hoodie. It's about to pour.

 "I change his diapers, built his crib, painted his room...SACRIFICE man!" The rain was in earnest now, and we begin to run now.

 "And Kendra, " I say when I signal the young man to slow down so I can have my ash filled lungs recover for a moment, "she don't even fight. Just let him take the boy and walk out. Told me to chill it when I said I was gonna kill his ass. 'It ain't your business' she says."

 The center has come in view and the young man next to me looks thankful. I can see he's bothered that we're a little late.

 "Ain't my BUSINESS?! AIN'T MY BUSINESS?!! NIGGA IIII was the one was there next to her when she was going through labor and everything! It was ME!"

 He opens the door to the place and Mrs. Johnson smiles kindly. She's always been nice, even though we are routinely late coming from our shift at the Warehouse. I think she's got a crush on my friend, but he's to bashful to admit that I'm probably right.

 "Zion and Michael are in the back," she says warmly. We nod and make our way there.

 "Jesus took'em on father's day man. You know how bad that hurt? FATHER's day," I whisper as we head down the hallway.

 "Judge had to order he bring'em back, you believe that?! Nigga better not have hit'em over there. He ain't go no right. No right at-"

 We enter the spacious back room of the daycare, and Zion races over to me. Michael is shy like his daddy, and makes his way to the young man next to me.

 "DADDY!" my boy shouts, and gives me a hug. I haven't seen him in 8 days. 8 whole days. I feel my eyes welling up with tears. My friend, the young quiet man, takes hold of his own son's hand and shakes his head at me.

 "Kids always know who belongs in their lives." he says quietly.

 I nod. For once, I'm too overcome to speak. The rain pours on outside, washing away fresh wounds.

The Old Bait and Switch

Dear University students, faculty, and staff:

Welcome to the spring semester! We hope that you had a restful intersession full of mirth and merriment and are ready for a fantastic 15 weeks.  Before we have our brief orientation on Monday, we wanted to let you know of the exciting changes going on!  This semester, we issued our most ambitious target yet: to recruit 80 more students to become part of our University family!  

As everyone on the recruitment staff knows, this process has been expertly carried out, and were it not for the hard work of the entire team, we would not have the 62 new members we have today among our student ranks! Please be sure to congratulate our team's  great work when you see them on campus.  

A few brief notes to lay out:  We will no longer be offering the evening sessions of English 101 and Math 101. The day schedule remains as is! Stay posted on any other changes.

The University family is stronger than ever and it wouldn't be so without all of you. We look forward to seeing you for orientation!

Sincerely, 

Knoll Stephens, President

Michael read the email several times over. He checked his watch and saw that it was 5pm; on this Friday, no one would be in the office. He furiously began crafting an email and then halted. 

He'd only been working at University since last spring, so this was his forth semester. He was one of the remedial math instructors, and he spent most of his time doing algebra and geometry with students in danger of flunking out.  

Michael liked his job. He enjoyed teaching Juan Ruiz, who had started the class with such a poor attitude that mere mention of math made him snarl.  With careful attention, and gentle encouragement, he'd been able to pry past Juan's ornery disposition, and the boy and passed his placement exam with flying colors.

He relished the challenge of working  with Verde Sol, who evidently hadn't been taught some basic rules of fractions. It had made his day when he'd seen her eyes light up as she finally understood that denominators needed to be the same in order for them to be added together.

Michael had even relished his time trying to get James White to come to class, often calling the boy's mother and grandmother to help the cause, and sending the boy himself  long winded texts. He knew that college students shouldn't need such  prodding, but he was a very committed instructor, and he wanted to be sure that he had done everything in his power to educate his students.

He'd never taken a sick day and never missed a deadline. He was well enough liked by the rest of the math staff, and very respectful to his superiors. He approached everything with an earnest and honest disposition that was heart warming.

In fact, just the other day, he'd been called to lunch with the President of the University and the Math Department chair. He'd been taken to a fancy restaurant right on the strip where the small University rested, and had been commended for his excellent service. In fact, they'd been so impressed by his work, that they had suggested that he switch from a daytime teaching schedule to a night schedule. They reasoned that the students in the latter class were typically weaker than the day students, and that they demanded special attention from such a "talented young educator."  Though Michael had many of his own private students in the evening, he had been moved by the personal supplication of his superiors. He had readily acquiesced.

Now, he stared at the email before him in consternation. If the evening session of Math 101 had been cancelled, could that possibly mean that...he was out of the job?  He stared again, and shook his head and utter bewilderment.

Perhaps he'd be able to retake his day schedule. With a sinking heart, though, he remembered that he'd  in fact switched his schedule with  perhaps the only one of the senior math instructors who disliked him. He'd never get his schedule back.

A fleeting idea passed him, and he had to take a deep breath to control his mounting anger. Had the president and department chair KNOWN that the evening class was going to be cut? Had they deliberately placed him in a position that did not in fact exist? 

He HAD been on the job the for least amount of time of all the other instructors. And if they had only been able to get 62 new students when they were supposed to get 80, then the college was in fact under enrolled.

Michael felt the world take on a sad grey hue. He was slowly coming to an understanding: that meeting with his bosses had been his exit interview . This email was an extremely opaque, though public, way of firing him. He was devastated. He was humiliated. 

Taking one last look his email, Michael's eye rested on the word "family."  The irony was disgusting to him, and he slammed his computer shut. He wondered if he'd be able to get any of his private students back, as he'd sent them all to friends of his who he knew tutored. He thought about his rent and his student loans, and the computer he had promised his 15 year old little brother. His mind whirred and whirred and whirred....Finally it rested on a singular question: 

When had the Academy turned so violently into the Corporation? 
      

Getting Over

The tired statements of the people that seem to expect us to care are astonishing. Some claim that they started from nothing, reached some zenith of success, only to be cast down again.

Others indicate that they've been ensnared in the proclivities that often do derail life. Drugs or hard living or thievery and prostitution brought on by a destitute situation.

You've got the crazies screaming things that we all think but are too afraid to say, in public at least.

Snippets of conversation on the subway.

“fuck poor ass niggas, jews are robbing me blind, do these fags gotta kiss in FRONT of me, that girl prolly gotta nice pussy, the Africans smell like shit and feet, that chink BETTER gimme the dumpling for free, yo, when them Mexicans gonna learn English and why they got so many damn kids, we DOMINICAN, not black, I like pretzels with my bitches" and on and on and on, laughing all the way, ha ha ha.

Then there's the college student desperately trying to check out the hot guy in the corner while "reading." The book is astonishingly large, and she chomps on carrots that are dipped in some foul smelling concoction she probably claims is hummus. She goes to NYU, or at least that's what her bag says.

A man wearing a Bill Cosby t- shirt  just entered the train at Grand Central. He's got sad eyes, and tattered clothing. His hair is matted and stark white. He used to be beautiful, I can see that. For a brief minute we catch each other's eye.

I'm 20 days sober, and I notice that I've got a lot of time on my hands. Oogles of time. Vats of it. Somehow trolling the underbelly of this city is deeply satisfying so I go up and down, down and up. My goal is to see every train line in its entirety, to leave no some unturned.

Last night I saw a pretty funny thing on the M train. A young man got on, with his fancy coat and awesome boots. He looked for someplace to sit and there was a whole bench that wasn't being used on the car we sat on. He happily sat his bottom down.

The man must not have noticed that the subway car was empty (except for me, of course), despite the fact that it was rush hour. I'm also certain that his sense of smell must have been utterly suspended.

What transpired in front of me was a gold mine in anthropology (sociology? biology? It's been awhile since college.)  In a matter of a few seconds, the man's face went from inquiry (the Madeline “something is not right" phase) to vague recognition (the scientific method phase, where, having used one's senses to analyse the variables, a problem has indeed been identified) to horror ( the oh-shit phase). He capped it all off with a yelp, as he jumped straight up, his bottom sopping wet from the urine some fool has deposited there hours before (I had seen the woman pull down her pants and do it too,  poor dear. She was making a point about PETA, I believe, but I can't remember exactly what it was).

Maybe my favorite moment in this odessy of mine involved a bible toting evangelical who aggressively warned us of God's impending wrath.  I suppose he didn't count on the scalding rage of his ex-wife, who he had not expected would be joining us at Franklin Avenue. She was on her way to pick up her welfare check and nearly fell over herself when she saw the man. For his part, I've never seen one as dark as he blanche so dramatically.

I doubt a trip to Flatbush has ever been so entertaining. The man tried his best to stay on his  message of gloom and doom. His wife ran parallel commentary about how  he had run out on his kids, forced his family into a homeless shelter, refused to pay alimony and child support, and taken a  mistress who was only 20.  They ran up and down the car like they were absolutely mad. Whenever they came close to passing each other, she'd accent her stinging words by slapping him on the back of his head, to which he would respond with a fresh monologue on "turning the other cheek." It was outrageous. 

No, I'm not homeless, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a trombone player, and I used to have a regular gig at a dumpy place not far away from Letterman, in midtown. It paid well enough, and I could play sloshed and nobody really noticed or cared. But hell. I gave it all up. The whiskey and what not. I decided I needed to change everything if I was really going to do the thing. I have a few thousand dollars my grandmother left me  when she died last year so I can float for a little bit...

I've never been on the G train. I don't even know where that goes. Sounds like an adventure for tomorrow. 

Happy Birthday

 Most of the time, when I wake up, I feel pretty shitty. My head hurts. My stomach hurts. My jaw hurts. I’m kept up all night by the sibilant hissing of demons, weight down my shoulders so that I’m sinking into a pile of my own excrement….sinking…sinking… It might be the chocolate fudge bar I eat right before bedtime. I always add peanut putter, caramel, and brown sugar to it just to make sure that all of my teeth rot out of my skull before I’m 25. Maybe it’s the ever flaccid phallus that lies limp in my lips despite the most desperate efforts on the part of my mandible.

 “What do you want.”
 “That’s really how u answer your phone?”
 “What do you want.”
 “Where u at?”
 “What do you want.”
 “U cranky, huh?”
 “I’m hanging up.”
 “No! No! Listen man, I’m coming over”
 “I’m not home.”
 “Yes u is.  I’m a block away.”
 “….”
 “Mark?”
“WHAT DO YOU WANT.”
 “Happy Birthday.”

When I was a kid, my dad used to see me occasionally. He was a police officer…No, he was a detective. Broad shoulders, serious deep eyes, skin as dark as Lady Night herself and a booming laugh. Dad visited me when he was horny. Stop that you disgusting, degenerate, freak; I was not the subject of his carnal appetite. No, he had Bri, Sasha, Lisa, and Courtney for that, and all of them were Beckies.

Visiting his bastard child over the weekend gave him an excuse to get out of his weekend responsibilities at home. In retrospect its odd that he married Lizzie, his wife at the time. Right before he died, he confided in me that she was the only black girl he had ever had. Maybe it was her name that fooled him….

 We’d drive down Morningside Ave, or Fredrick Douglass blvd, or 125th street, right where it curves into east Harlem. He’d get out, moving slow as molasses have me come with him to his “friend’s house.” One thing about my dad…He could never be rushed, not even into death. Sometimes, he’d have me come in with him, and have me watch the Power Rangers on TV in the room next to Becky. When I got older, he’d give me money and tell me to come back in 2 hours. I hated sharing my Dad. I hated the white women he slept with. I hated the fucking Power Rangers, and I hated his money. Most of all though, I hated the endless line of light skinned punk ass progeny his over active baton willed into existence. I hated my brother John.

 “What do you want.”
 “Let me in”
 “Go away”
 “Come on man, open the door”
 “I’m not home.”
 “I brought ur shit”
 “I don’t want it.”
 “It's extra birthday special”
 “I don’t want it.”
 “Yes you do.”
 “Go away”
 “I know u can smell it.”
 “Stop it.”
 “Open the door.”

 He saunters in with his tumbling curls, and his pearly white teeth. He strolls, in with his slow-as-molasses gait, and his easy smile. He struts in, with his broad shoulders and booming laugh. He walks into my fucking apartment, and owns it.

 “Nigga, u look like hell,” John says.

 I wonder if he believes that, when we are in person, I will only understand him if he sounds as stupid as possible.

 “I don’t know why you gotta be like that all the time, I’m just tryin’ to HELP u. Ur ma callin’ me saying that she can’t get ahold of u, and I heard what you did to Sarah, Nigga I know you crazy, but damn yo. BITING and shit?"

 I want him to shut up. I need him to shut up. I grab a knife and advance on him.

 He takes no notice of the weapon in my hand, and is digging in his bag.

 Now I am walking with the slow gooey plod of thick molasses of my father. of my brother. Closer. and Closer. My stomach feels good. My head feels great.

 “I got the good shit for u man. How much you want? Couple 8ths?” He looks up at me, his eyes beaming in genuine fraternal benevolence. His earnestness is off putting.

 I sigh and put the knife down. I grab one of the dime bags he holds, and don't bother to look for cash. I'm not givin' this light skinned nigga nothin.

 "Happy birthday," he says. Of course. This goody-two-shoes got me a birthday present, I should have known. This fucker.

 John zips up his bag and stand up to leave. He heaves a huge sigh and finally gets to the point.

 "She talkin' 'bout goin' to the police," he says quietly, "She said she gonna do it. U really messed up her face good."

 I close my eyes as the weight of the world descends upon my head.

 Sarah had started it really. I never liked it when she drank beer, and she had insisted on getting drunk last night. Predicatbly, she was smashed after her 3rd one and she couldn't help herself. She kept digging...she kept probing...She kept asking...she wanted to know if...if...if...

 She asked every question save for the one that really bothered her most, but I pretended that I didn't know what she was talking about. She became frustrated. She became belligerent. She started slapping me and crying. Then she started throwing my shit. When she went to smash, my keyboard, my patience maxed out. I had to shut it down. She needed to be restrained.

 "How could u just peel off her face like that man? Like a dog? Seriously yo, what was u on?"

 I begin rolling a joint. Slowly and meticulously. Back and forth. Back and forth.

 "She sent you over here, huh," I inquire. This nigga thinks he's so slick but I see right through him.

 "Tell her that if she act like an animal, she'll get treated like one. Ok? Now please. Get out. Of my. House."

 John stares at me silently for a moment. Then he shakes his head very sadly.

 "Watch urself man. I wanna make sure ur around for ur next birthday, ya know? I love you man." I stare out the window and think.

 I don't even remember him leaving.