Beef in Brooklyn

Looking at the title of this particular blog one could say that I'm listing two synonym with a mere preposition in between. For example, I'm on the bus night before last, on my way to catch my homegirl Seda before she skips out for Vegas Baby. It's the B26, a route that takes several twists and turns through Bed-Stuy before heading downtown at the base of the city. As it's pushing eleven there are only about four people on the bus, one of whom is this raggedy looking guy that's either fresh out of jail, living on streets or hooked on something other than phonics. Either way he calls an abrupt stop and gets off through the rear entrance. The bus driver lets him through the doors but after realizing who go off, stops the entire bus, opens the front doors and screams to him that he's a bum and he needs to "get a job!" I can only take this to mean that the cat had gotten on promising to pay his fare and had then reneged once he got far enough down the way.

Now had I been Freddie Freeloader I would've pat myself on the back for a successful heist and kept it moving. But this dude wasn't me. He starts shouting back at this cat from the street and they go back and forth, holding up the route by several minutes for no reason at all. I mean if the driver got off, every passenger left would have been a witness to lack of self control. If Freddie came at the driver he's looking at a seven year beef for assaulting a bus operator. As is the case with most altercations in the city, it's merely a show for everybody there, as neither party knows it's worth enough to make anything out of it.

Last night I'm doing laundry at the former drug front gone straight. My gear is on spin and I've got the laptop out. juicing a signal from whatever poor sap in the apartment building above had chosen not to password protect his network. All is well and good until a Jamaican lady whom I bet spend much of her youth as Bashment parties and has at least held a piece for one rude boy in her lifetime decided to open a younger woman's dryer and tell her that she can't use all the dryers. This is particular ironic as the rude girl in question is using about four of them. But the little chocolate cutie (who would have been kibble if a cat flight broke out) doesn't back down, her gay homeboy in tow. I sat my thoughts out loud "Are y'all really about to box over laundry?" I can tell that Rude girl is pissed off about something else, or that she's so hardened by whatever her life has been that she thinks she can bully anyone. Add in the fact that it turns out that Rude girl is a homie of the laundromat manager, she has to keep it cool one way or the other, or she puts her girl's job in jeaopardy.

Eventually Rude Girl stops saying anything and goes back to her clothes. But the little chocolate sprite finds herself venting for another twenty minutes while I'm sitting there, somewhat high on life and being thankful that I'm from a town where words stop after the the first minute or two(or maybe that was just during the era when I was growing up) and if it's gonna go down, it does so with a lot less fanfare.

While I had a few fights here and there I just always saw what coming to blows might mean. In a neighborhood where I have no family and a decreasing number of friends, why am I gonna step to anybody who calls this place home and has access to at least a good two or three folks ready to administer an ass-whipping at any given point. Add in my temper when unchecked and well...it just ain't worth it. That's what I've always told myself and that, only second to God and the parent Oludamare gave me, is one of the only reasons I'm still walking about today.

On another note, last night also featured the beginnings of Negarra and I's investigation into the ominous character who is my landlord, whom we will call "Bill". Bill, a retired cop without kids and a live-in woman who is either his wife or some close relative (I think I've seen these two in the same place at the same time about three times in seven years) there for cleaning and domestic purposes, own the brownstone where I live and from what my former neighbor told me, some other properties as well.

He leaves his crib about once a day, staying in the hood, doesn't drive, doesn't seem to travel and doesn't seem to care about things like leases, his tenants having his phone number or bringing competent contractors in to doing any kind of work (His only repair guy is a mouthy runt whom I imagine to live with older relatives and to be hustling Newports and bootleg handbags on the side). Bill's very friendly with women and icy with men (He all but dissed my own Dad when he came to visit). For example, when my old neighbor Tam had mice she got traps and steel wool. When my battle began I got an exterminator who came once a month, dropped two poison packets and walked out like he's just fixed a nuclear reactor. Negarra (aka the straight Kima Greggs) put some interesting theories on the table about Bill, which I may or may not share as the week goes along. Let's just say that she and I should have been detectives. Not cops, but maybe investigators with a Columbo sort of flair. You'll see what we mean as time goes on. Until then...Out.