adjustments.
Focus on the System, which has a way forward for everything.
Six months of physical therapy my caramel ass.
G et that prickly feeling around the backside of Rockefeller Center.
I’m on the east side of Fifth, and I sidestep into the northernmost doorway of bombed-out Saks & Company. Heart rate up a touch, even accounting for the physical exertion.
Take a look back up the avenue, casual like.
Yup. A black Lincoln Navigator idles a block down, between 49th and 50th, in front of St. Patrick’s. Blue parking lights on. Trying to make like they weren’t tailing me.
I tell myself I’m processing shit paranoid. But I rarely believe me. Consider possible moves. Decide to hang back a bit, stay put. Plus I don’t mind the breather. My leg smarts like a bastard. Feel for a cigarette, I have none. I keep forgetting …
My gun is holstered, but I’m a happier man for wearing it. I wanna scrub up but I got the gloves and wanna keep them on in case I need to bolt. Not like I’d make it a yard before my new knee snapped like a stale pretzel stick.
Another look. The Navigator loitering. I make out tinted windows, therefore can’t get a peep in.
Considering this. Lincoln Navis are strictly VIP rides. Engine conversion to battery way cost-prohibitive for just any Joe Schmoe. Celebrity, status whips. Not much changed in that respect since the bling-bling hip hop self-projections of the pre-Occurrence(s) world.
Guys I knew growing up would posture-pimp, renting a Navi or a Lexus or an Escalade for special occasions, along with the obligatory assortment of neighborhood chicas, some of whom were available for rent as well.
Drive the beast around town, bass in the back rattling folks’ windows. Shoot a video, YouTube it, smoke a blunt, and bullshit to your friends. Short-term large living.
Come morning, you’re back to your slog at Best Buy or Applebee’s.
Brothers would razz me because I favored that “think-y” Brooklyn/Queens stuff. Tribe Called Quest, Mos. Uppity fag shit. Despite the fact that I wore Skulls colors, which, honestly, never felt like me.
Except for the violence. Was always good at that part.
Imagine the ridicule, had they found me digging Stravinsky. Mahler. Ornette Coleman. King Tubby. Fela. Good stuff out of my dad’s record collection. Even now I can smell the vinyl and the faint mildew of the jacket covers.
Snap out of it. Back to the Lincoln. Thinking: the only other stratum of society who still rocked these tanks would be government. This sets off a whole new round of unbalanced speculation.
Can’t just stand here like a soft bitch. I use the brass doors to push off, direct myself south like a gentleman taking the air. In no hurry.
Don’t have to turn around to sense the Navi’s approach. My gun hand twitches, cowboy style. Ready for whatever.
The vehicle pulls parallel and paces me. Provocative … I can’t be hobbling more than three miles an hour.
Face front, keep on hiking. I don’t acknowledge the Lincoln. Again my hand spasms a bit. Amber alert.
Can’t help it, I glance sideways. Smoked-out glass, revealing nothing.
Me, primed for a tussle, a bracing, a shoot-out, what have you.
I guess they lose interest or opt out, cause the driver gases it and they pull away from me, kind of lazy like.
Smoked-out rear windows as well. Look though: the plates—red, white, and blue. Diplomatic plates.
I watch the SUV as it hangs a right onto East 47th Street.
Realize I’ve been holding my breath.
Maybe it’s the paranoia that’s keeping my ass alive.
D ig the two heavily muscled men sitting astride one of the marble lions that bookend the library steps, facing one another.
I’ve been watching them from the recessed entryway of the former Nat Sherman tobacco shop (later some useless chain clothing store) for about six minutes. Northwest corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue.
I’m exhausted and just want to lie down. How much of my life, in hours and days, have I wasted
Focus on the System, which has a way forward for everything.
Six months of physical therapy my caramel ass.
G et that prickly feeling around the backside of Rockefeller Center.
I’m on the east side of Fifth, and I sidestep into the northernmost doorway of bombed-out Saks & Company. Heart rate up a touch, even accounting for the physical exertion.
Take a look back up the avenue, casual like.
Yup. A black Lincoln Navigator idles a block down, between 49th and 50th, in front of St. Patrick’s. Blue parking lights on. Trying to make like they weren’t tailing me.
I tell myself I’m processing shit paranoid. But I rarely believe me. Consider possible moves. Decide to hang back a bit, stay put. Plus I don’t mind the breather. My leg smarts like a bastard. Feel for a cigarette, I have none. I keep forgetting …
My gun is holstered, but I’m a happier man for wearing it. I wanna scrub up but I got the gloves and wanna keep them on in case I need to bolt. Not like I’d make it a yard before my new knee snapped like a stale pretzel stick.
Another look. The Navigator loitering. I make out tinted windows, therefore can’t get a peep in.
Considering this. Lincoln Navis are strictly VIP rides. Engine conversion to battery way cost-prohibitive for just any Joe Schmoe. Celebrity, status whips. Not much changed in that respect since the bling-bling hip hop self-projections of the pre-Occurrence(s) world.
Guys I knew growing up would posture-pimp, renting a Navi or a Lexus or an Escalade for special occasions, along with the obligatory assortment of neighborhood chicas, some of whom were available for rent as well.
Drive the beast around town, bass in the back rattling folks’ windows. Shoot a video, YouTube it, smoke a blunt, and bullshit to your friends. Short-term large living.
Come morning, you’re back to your slog at Best Buy or Applebee’s.
Brothers would razz me because I favored that “think-y” Brooklyn/Queens stuff. Tribe Called Quest, Mos. Uppity fag shit. Despite the fact that I wore Skulls colors, which, honestly, never felt like me.
Except for the violence. Was always good at that part.
Imagine the ridicule, had they found me digging Stravinsky. Mahler. Ornette Coleman. King Tubby. Fela. Good stuff out of my dad’s record collection. Even now I can smell the vinyl and the faint mildew of the jacket covers.
Snap out of it. Back to the Lincoln. Thinking: the only other stratum of society who still rocked these tanks would be government. This sets off a whole new round of unbalanced speculation.
Can’t just stand here like a soft bitch. I use the brass doors to push off, direct myself south like a gentleman taking the air. In no hurry.
Don’t have to turn around to sense the Navi’s approach. My gun hand twitches, cowboy style. Ready for whatever.
The vehicle pulls parallel and paces me. Provocative … I can’t be hobbling more than three miles an hour.
Face front, keep on hiking. I don’t acknowledge the Lincoln. Again my hand spasms a bit. Amber alert.
Can’t help it, I glance sideways. Smoked-out glass, revealing nothing.
Me, primed for a tussle, a bracing, a shoot-out, what have you.
I guess they lose interest or opt out, cause the driver gases it and they pull away from me, kind of lazy like.
Smoked-out rear windows as well. Look though: the plates—red, white, and blue. Diplomatic plates.
I watch the SUV as it hangs a right onto East 47th Street.
Realize I’ve been holding my breath.
Maybe it’s the paranoia that’s keeping my ass alive.
D ig the two heavily muscled men sitting astride one of the marble lions that bookend the library steps, facing one another.
I’ve been watching them from the recessed entryway of the former Nat Sherman tobacco shop (later some useless chain clothing store) for about six minutes. Northwest corner of 42nd and Fifth Avenue.
I’m exhausted and just want to lie down. How much of my life, in hours and days, have I wasted
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