I was driving to see Gretchen and the apartment in Bed-Stuy that we would be living in. Of course, I partied until 9 a.m. the morning before I left. I awoke at noon panicked, behind schedule; to make it all the way to Brooklyn before nightfall Sunday I had to pack quickly, drive like Chris Tucker late for church and be very fucking lucky in avoiding traffic and troopers.
It took 23 hours of driving and a fourhour nap at a rest stop in eastern Ohio to arrive at 7 exhausted and famished. But I was so happy to see Gretchen that I put fatigue and hunger aside while we talked and fucked on a cramped, borrowed air mattress laid bare in the middle of our hollowed-out apartment.
The construction dust, the broken stove, the flickering lights—none of it mattered. When we finished, she turned to me and said sheepishly, “I really want to go to this party my friend invited me to.” “What kind of party is it?” “A reggae party,” she explained.
“I’ll go—if it sucks I’ll just leave.” When we got to Grand Army Plaza, it occurred to me: This isn’t a party, it’s a pre-parade.The West Indian Day parade was the next morning, and revelers were already preparing.
“This is like a four-hour commitment,” I said. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” “Well, you can go, I really want to experience this, this is New York, you know?” “Babe. Just trust me.” “Why don’t you just go?” Minutes later, when we turned the corner to the McDonald’s plaza,we found about 5,000 parade enthusiasts smoking,drinking and singing in the streets. Some played drums and staged small floats, most just stood around in groups swapping flasks and dancing.The air smelled of bad weed, grape-flavored blunts and incense. Aside from the cops, I was the only white guy there.
The moment Gretchen saw the crowd, she turned and said “Yeah, let’s get out of here,” her pale skin and wispy blond hair standing out like a Midwestern lighthouse among the sea of late night revelers.
Suddenly, five shots were fired from about 40 yards away. The group of twentysomethings to my right yelled out, “Aww, that nigga just shot that shit off.” Another followed with, “You’re fuckin’ next, white boy.” There was no one they could be talking to except me. Four women in their sixties with Trinidadian accents and jowly smirks chimed in: “This white motha’ fucka’ crazy.What the fuck he think he doin’ out here? These boys goin’ta cut his ass.” As sweat seeped through my checked shirt, I acknowledged privately that custom-tailored business attire was not as street-casual as I once navely assumed, rakishly unbuttoned or not. We headed back toward the road we came in on, and the cops turned us away. “Sorry, can’t do it. Gotta find another way.” I pleaded with them. “Man, its fucking crazy out here. I need to get the fuck outta here before I get killed.”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t. “So, how the hell do I get out of here then?” “I’m from Staten Island—I don’t know the neighborhood.” “Does anybody?” “I doubt it.” Two blocks away, a group of five guys came running towards Gretchen and I at full speed— one yelled out “Stop nigga’ stop! Show ‘em the guns!”They all stopped and turned around directly on either side of us and pulled up their shirts, revealing handguns in their waistbands to the group across from them—some sort of macabre ghetto version of the playground game Red Rover. A group of cops 10 yards away watched this all happen, stone-faced.
At every corner on the walk home, I was threatened. Halfway there, we ran across two cops guarding an intersection that looked like they wouldn’t be complete dicks.
“You guys know where the hell I can catch a cab?” They both pointed in obviously random directions. I scoffed, “We just came from that way.” “Well, we’re from the Bronx, this isn’t our usual turf.” “OK.” I shook my head in disgust as I walked off. One cop, a lumbering, pale blond Aryan-looking guy smacking on gum, sang to the tune of Ol’ Blue Eyes’ “Strangers in the Night:” Noobie noobie noooob.
The mob’s declarations of “Even your pig buddies won’t help you now!” were buttressed by “Best get the fuck on outta here!” A half-hour walk later, the crowd’s intensity mercifully subsided.Within a few blocks of our house, people stopped threatening us and started offering me marijuana. “Hey big man, kind bud. Got that fire, got that fire.” It had been a long first night in the city, and the jive of the local drug dealers was the most welcoming thing I could hope to experience.
Ty Forvé is a writer living in Brooklyn.He’s hoping a book deal will let him move out of the ‘hood.
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