Friday -
At the busstop things were slow, so I asked this older (black) guy who had paint-spattered clothes and was unshaven if things were running slow. He didn't know, but he said he need to get home before the firing started.
"Fouth of July and New Year," he was like, "I'm home by eight," and he proceeded to tell me about one time how he was taking the subway home on New Year's Eve, and as it went above ground by some housing projects by the tracks that aren't there any more, they were demolished, you could hear pings of bullets ricocheting off the sides of the train.
"I wonder about coming home tonight myself," I was like, "That kind of shit makes me nervous."
"Nervous?", he was like. "Hell, boy, that shit fucks with my head."
He then told me that he was painting some women's closet in my neighborhood for cash under the table, and she had a department store in her closet and that he had it all laid out in her room, and he had to come back the next day just to put it all back in once the pain had dried.
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