That morning I got up in the afternoon. My friend Micki came from 204th/Post Avenue, from her man's crib complaining about his small penis saying, "My baby brother's got a bigger dick than his!"
And I had to get up and shower, leaving her in my room and I took the loofa with me because I scrub the dead skin off my body every Saturday. My father says that as a Puerto Rican he only showers once a week, on Saturday, so that's when I scrub; my arms, back, neck, tween my breasts, above my torso. I head into the bathroom head down, rolling and bobbing. She does not smoke one of her Newports, afraid of getting hit with a lecture, afraid the plan might crash and burn.
When I come out, I feel that wierdness of being half naked. My closet is full of clothing that I am not allowed to wear, and I really can't remember what it's doing there, except that I have a sister at the time, and she has a job on Riverdale Avenue. I open the closet door to unwrap my body and dress behind it as if it were a screen protecting Micki and me from each other because we spend so much time together that I am uptight.
I get into my draws, top, bottom and kicks; and put a rubberband in my hair. We get outside and Micki does not light a cigarette. With stupid written across my forhead I decide to go to her crib from my crib. We go through 'C-ROCK,' which is like dope for delinquents. All the thugs around have climbed it and jumped off it's erection. Diving into the river across the street from my flat has killed a few, but how many more birds or people has the Metro North taken? Obviously not nearly enough lives, if you believe in learning the hard way; with a beating.»
Watching our backs, we cross the street and take a quarter block up hill, then down the steps and walk past all the commercials. At the end, getting ready to jump off the platform, onto rocks of the tracks--it makes my adrenaline rush and I feel quickly that I am 'double zero 35771105am' and not a wise ass, like my eee-con teacher says at City-As -School.
Micki and I will probably smoke a blunt of that cancer curing marijuana in a white owl cigar skin, maybe a DutchMaster. The coast is clear except for the people attending gym at John F. Kennedy High School outside on their football field.
We don't see the authorities and keep moving, first quickly, then just strolling. Finally we arrive at place behind the sky blue letter C- framed in white and large for all to note, representing for Columbia University. Here is a nice safe place where we settle down, a place you cannot hear the train ah-coming and everything is peacefull.
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