Taking a Stroll in the Rough Streets of Bay Ridge or the Streets Are All About Survival
Thursday, May 22nd, 2008
I wake up.
My phone was ringing, I didn’t bother picking it up. What time is it?
9:49 PM
Lame. I would’ve been better off staying asleep. God, it’s nearly ten. I must’ve passed out after work. All I know is the day before I went to Manhattan, had a few drinks (okay, more than a few), almost got into a fight at the bar, wiped my roommates puke from a cab window, and got into a small argument a vocally challenged subway employee because I bothered to ask her what she said on the microphone. You see, in NYC, all of the employees who make announcements suffer from a physical condition called your-mouth-is-too-close-to-the-mic impairment.
It would probably have made for an entry on it’s own, but instead it sets me up for the events that follow. I came home from that mess, slept for 3 hours, drank a red bull, walked into work dragging my feet (4th day on the job, mind you). Thankfully it was slow and I didn’t have to wait on people much. I was still a little hungover and hungry. I got a slice of pizza from one of NYC’s generic pizzerias on my way home, inhaled the slice, sat on the couch, blinked once, blinked twice, and now it’s 10 o’clock.
I pretty much did nothing but watch TV for the next couple of hours. After wasting some time, I finally found the motivation to go shower. I finished and realized I was really hungry. I only ate one meal all day. I looked in the fridge for something, anything, to eat or drink.
The following items were in my fridge:
-beer
-mayonnaise
-mustard
-ketchup
-lemons
(If someone knows of a way to combine these into an awesome meal, let me know or leave a comment.)
I knew it was time to get out and scope the city for something to eat. It was time to walk the rough streets of Brooklyn. The streets don’t intimidate me. I’ve been to the rough streets of Detroit and Flint plenty of times, behind the wheel of my car (doors locked, windows up). I can handle this. People don’t know! People don’t fucking know! I have an alter-ego named Rolo (I’m cashing in on the “candy bar” name fad) and I have a rich history of dealing with the streets through my viewing of rap videos and mafia movies.
I began my journey by walking up to 5th and 86th Street. I gotta get my paper (money) before I can get my grub on. After doing some hustling and throwing away my ATM receipt, I walked up to the Pizza Wagon. There was this tall Italian kid (about 20, maybe) spitting on the sidewalk giving me dirty looks. I held my ground and kept walking to the order window, about 20 feet to, he turned around to get his order. He must’ve had second thoughts (smart guy).
-I had to take this photo during the day, they might whack me for taking picture of the usual Italian patrons.
I was beginning to have second thoughts myself because I ate pizza earlier. I almost walked in there, but as I walked by I noticed the place was loaded with Italians. Usually I wouldn’t give a fuck, but I had a feeling if I walked in it’d be like one of those scenes in the movies where the music stops and everyone turns their attention to you.
“Whatever, I already had a slice earlier today.”
I continued onward, back toward 4th, where I noticed the B-Stop Deli still open. The “B” had to stand for “Break” as in breakdancer (B-Boy). I knew this might be a shadier place to walk in. I’ve seen Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2: Electric Bugaloo. This was going to be my biggest test since coming to Brooklyn. I had outcomes projecting in my mind of my mother finding out about me by a headline that read, “Man Beaten to Death by Well-Choreographed Street Thugs.”
-Again, had I taken this picture at night, I wouldn’t have came back alive.
I got on my cellphone walking up to the establishment to make it seem as though I was calling up my crew. I had to let these suckers know I meant business. Unfortunately no one picked up. After leaving a voicemail on my mom’s cellphone (“Hi Mom! I’m just calling to see if you guys are up. I guess you’re not. I bought a silk comforter today. I love you and tell Dad I love him, too!”), I decided I was going to walk in. The man in front of me ordered a sandwich really quick, “Pastrami, lettuce, tomato, on rye, swiss cheese, with mayo and mustard.”
They must know him. Because he ordered it really swift and when he was done making the sandwich for the man, he tossed it to the cashier.
Now it was my turn.
“Can I jelp you?”
Lights, Camera, Action. My heart stopped. I knew I had to do this.
“Sir?” he asked again.
“Yes, I’d like a Turkey Club.”
“What kind of bread you like?”
“Rye.” He began making it. I knew it was almost over. It was too early to call this outing a success, but I knew the worst might be behind me . . . wait! I forgot to tell him what kind of cheese I wanted.
“Sir, can I have provolone with that?”
“There is no sheese on de club!”
“Can I add it?”
“No sheese. He does not come with sheese.”
Damn. These streets ARE tough. I had a feeling, but I had to experience it first hand to know what Puff Daddy, MC Hammer, and Ice Tea were talking about. There was no way to change the rules of the game. The sandwich was going to made as specified by the menu and this Hispanic gangster sandwich maker controlled my fate.
I pulled my Ace. I gotta use street smarts.
“I’ll pay extra for cheese.”
“No sheese on the club. Does not include.”
I started my way to the cooler to grab a Diet Coke. I felt defeated. Then he turns his head to me and says:
“You want sheese? You pay extra?”
“Yes, that’s fine. Provolone please.”
Finally, RESPECT. I got my street props. I grabbed some chips and walked over to the counter, but before I can pay for my the order, the sandwich maker signals something to the cashier.
I decided to play it safe. The last thing I need was to get hit by a drive-by on way back home. I announced to the cashier after he rang up my stuff:
“I added cheese to my sandwich.”
“Is okay, he say no charge.”
BOO-YA, I run the streets. I thanked them and walked back to my apartment. No broken bones or bullet wounds to mend. I survived another day. That’s what life on the streets is about, survival.
