It was an average day outside. Sixty-three degrees and partly cloudy, with light variable winds out of the southwest, and a 30 percent chance of rain after 3pm. Sage knew these things about the weather because his grandma always kept the news on at the apartment. He liked the weather.
Yes, it was an average day outside. Sage waited for the the BX 1 to arrive to take him from 185th street, where he went to Central Middle School, back over to his grandmama's house in Mott Haven.
The bus arrived in average fashion, about 10 minutes behind schedule. He climbed on, slid his student metro card through the slot, and picked a seat in the area that he usually sat, in the middle part of the bus, on the driver's side.
In terms of distance, he wasn't traveling very far, but the bus always took it's sweet time. Always there was someone racing after the hulking mass of public transportation, and the stories folks had for why they lacked the fare or metrocard to pay their way were always long winded and entertaining.
Today, Sage spent most of his time on the bus, staring at the sky over the small office and apartment buildings that dotted either side of the Bronx thoroughfare. He wondered if the 30 percent chance of showers had been a bit of an underestimate, as he could see thick storm clouds way off to South. A storm was brewing for sure.
At 149th street, the boy got off the bus and headed east toward Lincoln Hospital. Manny, the who ran the food cart outside of the hospital entrance, was always kind to him, and sometimes gave him a quarter off the hot pretzels he sold. The man seemed to have an unusual knack for telling the weather too, and Sage was interested to see what he thought of today's forecast. He was almost certain that his suspicion about the impending storm would be confirmed.
As he made his way down the the slope that that exists between Grand Concourse and Lincoln Avenue, he passed an average sort of folk. Hospital technicians and staff smoking cigarettes on break. Men with missing teeth, teetering the side of serious drunkenness calling out for anything so that they could buy a cup of "coffee." Young men and women heading up and down the avenue, going to and coming from the local community college.
To Sage, the 4pm hour in the Bronx was never more alive than it was on days like this. He whistled a tune that he liked from the radio, and made his way eagerly down the hill, anxious for his salty, doughy snack.
At the cart, the average nature of his average day was shaken. Instead of Manny, a tall white gentleman stood behind the cart. He wore a tuxedo, and his face looked pinched from years of screwing up his face at mediocrity. As Sage approached, he could feel the man's eyes move up and down, appraisingly. From the outset, the boy could tell that the man didn't like what he saw.
"Excuse me," Sage said in his shy manner, "can I git the pretzel?"
The man coughed condescendingly, and shook his head from side to side. He did not even so much as glance at the hot pretzels next to him.
Sage felt himself blushing, and he wasn't sure if the man could hear him.
"Can I git the pretzel?" he said again, more loudly.
This time, the man in the tuxedo seemed to wince, and his pinched face became wracked in obvious displeasure.
"Young man," said he in the cart, "in order to patronize this cart, you must wear a collared shirt. And besides, sneakers and sweatpants certainly won't due."
Sage was confused. For one thing, he did not know what the word "patronize" meant, but he was certain that whatever it was, he was being insulted. And what was so wrong about his outfit? He'd never been told about his clothes before.
He knew that he would look foolish to ask again for his snack, and he felt even more embarrassed as the man behind the cart now looked passed him as though he were invisible. With a last uneasy look at the cart, he trudged away back toward his Grandma's apartment, his gait noticeably more labored. In the distance, he could hear a low rumble of thunder, and a single rain drop struck his head. Story gentrification had begun.
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