“I’m not buying.” I wave off the dealer, an urgent skeletal black man. It’s not enough to keep walking, he matches my pace and quizzes me. “Are you a cop, ar’you a narc?” I look him in the eye – not a stare down. Respect the dealer, and they’ll respect you. “I’m cool, I’m cool.” I don’t break stride as I say this.
Urban Meditation #1 –
“There are two kinds of people in the urban jungle: those that move with purpose, and those that rot in place.”
“Could you spare a dollar?” the homeless man holds his hand not far from his heart. His head sags a little. My heart goes out to him. I open my wallet, pull a one-dollar bill, and give it to him. His hand stays in place. Without so much as a thank you he says, “I see a five-dollar bill in there. That would help even more.” After another five and a couple twenties, I walk away.
Urban Meditation #2 –
“Be rich at home, and poor abroad.”
Sunday morning, I walk to the store for breakfast supplies. A man yells on the other side of the street. I decide to ignore it. Half a block ahead, also on the other side, another man yells back. The first pulls a pistol and fires. Blood sprays the changing leaves. The murderer runs away. I maintain my pace.
Urban Meditation #3 –
“Don’t get involved.”