D-FOB-Livingstone H31 AH, THE BAD OL' DAYS I was at the ...
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AH, THE BAD OL' DAYS I was at the Ding Dong Lounge, telling my friend Kryssy, the bartender, that I almost got killed a few Fridays back. I don't usually get drunk on Tuesday nights, so I don't see Kryssy all that often (she doesn't like sober customers), but when I do see her we have to catch up.
I was playing handball with some friends on W. 108th St., and some kids in the project behind the courts heaved an industrial-sized can of peas and carrots out the window. It landed about six feet from me. One second I'm moseying toward the back wall of this building to pick up the ball, and the next I'm bug-eyed and backpedaling at 95 miles an hour, covered from knees to neck in diced vegetables.
We spotted three little cretins peeking out of a top-floor window, and Lucky, Felix and Sergeo joined me in cursing out these little bastards who almost clocked me out from the twelfth floor. Lucky, the oldest and the wisest of us, calmed down first and made us move to the front courts before the little monsters had time to reload. I know that you can't win a rock fight from the bottom of a well, but
We finished that game and the next with one eye up to the sky.
By Tuesday I'd had all weekend to tell the story. Generally speaking, I got two sorts of responses. My sensitive friends were empathetic, while my adrenaline-junkie friends were angry. But everyone asked the same question: Did you call the police? The answer was "no." Truthfully, it never occurred to me to call the police.
I was getting a little annoyed at the feedbackthe same question every time, and nothing else. I grew up on W. 106th St. during the 70s, back when there were 2000 murders a year and people said there was nothing you could do about it. Back when things were a lot rougher. Back when everybody had a story about a near miss.
It was Kryssy (a staunch lady and a lifelong Brooklynite) who gave me the feedback I needed. She said, "Yeah, the little fuckers do that shit. In my neighborhood you gotta watch out for the cars though; they're always jumping the curb. I got hit by a car last month not three doors down from my apartment."
That's what we used to do back in the bad old days: trade survival stories. A good story is a good story, and let's face it: A story about almost dying, whether due to flying cans of vegetables or a reckless driver, is a lot more interesting than a story about the newest place to shop for artisanal food.
A story about almost dying is still a story about living, and living will always be more interesting than lifestyle. o