Despite the intensity of the showdown, the mood remained mostly light, which was a testament to the good-humored leadership of the event’s organizer, Terry “Kid Lucky” Lewis. Kid Lucky is a beatboxer and the founder of Beatboxer Entertainment, the first production company to revolve around the specialized art of creating drum sounds and syncopated rhythms without the aid of musical instrumentation or electronic equipment. In addition to his business above ground, he’s been organizing bimonthly underground celebrations for a few years, inspired by a friend who used to do the same in the early 90′s. Before each party gets started, he stands on the platform to deliver the opening address with his headphones draped around his neck as though he were about to put them back on and sunglasses covering his eyes despite the darkened subterranean environment. “At the first Hip Hop Subway Series,” he always tells the assembled crowd, which can range in size from anywhere between ten and fifty people, “there were only four people–me, my wife and two other friends.”

Kid Lucky resurrected the subway celebrations as a way of demonstrating that hip hop is alive and well in New York, and can be positive despite its misogynistic and violent portrayal in the mainstream media.

“We need to show that it’s not all about angry black men,” he usually says. Lucky is black though he’s not at all angry. Usually one of the last to arrive before the 6 pm departure time, Lucky exchanges hugs with all of the regulars and greets the new faces, most of whom had heard about HHSS from friends, with handshakes and smiles. As the train pulls into the station, he warns the crowd that the event has not been sanctioned by the MTA so if a subway patron asks you to move, oblige him. “Don’t be starting anything. Don’t try any of those conflict resolution skills you learned at the New School. Just move.”

There weren’t any complaints during the battle, which began as the subway departed from the Essex and Delancey stop. Not that any would’ve been heard above the cheers and singing. The contest, which HHSS hosted in conjunction with the dance outfit Boogie Nation was open to anyone with a desire to show off their skills and style on an unstable surface. Those who signed up were paired off to battle each other, and the winner of the preliminary round, decided by two judges, would face off against another victor until the pool was whittled down to last two b-boys. The final showdown would take place on a subway platform in Queens.

Between the rounds of battle, it was business as usual for HHSS, which meant one big cipher with an emcee taking center stage, the beatboxers in the inner ring, the soul clappers and singers a little further back and the rest of the participants, including some with video and film equipment on the outskirts. The rotating cast of emcees pushed their way to the middle and threw down rhymes, unscripted and generally forgettable, but that didn’t seem to matter to the crowd, who applauded them all. Most favored were lines that denounced the war in Iraq and demanded more funds for the inner city. A couple of months earlier, Kid Lucky had attempted to curb the dour impulses of some of the emcees by establishing humor as the official theme of one particular meeting. He meant to remind the audience that hip hop used to be funny and that the early rappers and b-boys were cut-ups and characters in addition to being artists. But without a mandate from Lucky, subsequent gatherings featured a heavy dose of the political though goofy lines slipped in occasionally.

At one of the last stops of the J train in Queens it was on. The final two b-boys, Macho and Frankie, took their places in the cipher as the crowd began stomping, singing and clapping to create a beat to dance to because breaking, first and foremost, is a dance and you gotta stay on the beat. Many people forget this because they are distracted and dazzled by the acrobatics of the discipline. Or maybe their knowledge of the dance is still rooted in the breakdancing fad of the 80′s, which featured robotic, herky-jerky movements and a general sense of clownishness. Or perhaps they associate it with embarrassing displays of the worm performed by uncles and cousins at bar mitzvahs and weddings.

But it’s a real dance, one of the four foundations of hip hop culture (the other three being graffiti, DJing and emceeing), and Frankie, the first one to step into the ring, focused on the top rock steps, which are the oft neglected movements done completely upright before the b-boy descends to the floor to do his more flashy footwork. It is during the top rocks that the b-boy gets to inject his style into the dance. Frankie’s upper body conveyed Bruce Lee-style aggression while his lower body moved with loose abandon as though a salsa rhythm were playing nearby. He menacingly approached Macho, who was standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest and staring right back at his opponent. Frankie then dove for the grimy subway floor to begin his footwork. His hands and feet blurred as he made use of every inch of the circle. His only pause came when his windmills spun into a nearby black garbage can though he quickly regrouped. Macho’s turn in the ring displayed a similar frenetic pace and daring athleticism but it was lacking Frankie’s musicality, spending little time on his top rock or flair. And after a few rounds of battle, it became evident that he could not match Frankie’s stamina. Though both b-boys had slowed down as exhaustion set in, Macho’s movements had become sluggish with long pauses between elements. You could see practically see the cogs in his mind turning as he thought about each step instead of reacting instantaneously to the beat.

The judges cast down their bandanas, one red, one black, signaling the end of the battle. Frankie was declared the winner and was presented with a framed poster that had been decorated graffiti-style, colorful bubble letters signifying the date, the occasion and the two collectives, HHSS and Boogie Nation, responsible for the event.

And most fittingly, Frankie was also awarded a monthly unlimited Metrocard so he could ride the subway, a place where there’s always an audience and room to dance for those willing to risk it.

I’m not quite sure how many times I have been inside a McDonald’s but it’s got to be under ten, including this most recent outing. As an Orthodox Jew, the only acceptable reason to enter a McDonald’s is to use the restroom and only after you have searched high and low for at least a half hour in all directions. If you have to take this unfortunate step, you also have to make sure the area is clear of any other Orthodox Jews; lest one see you enter and think, “Hey! I know that girl and she is a good law-abiding frum Jew so if she’s going into McDonald’s, it must be alright to eat there.” (Some entrepreneurial Jew should market signs that say stuff like, “I’m using the restroom” or “I only want a Coke.” You could hold the appropriate one up each time you enter a treif restaurant. There’s definitely money to be made in that.)

I don’t look both ways before I go in, but I’m not at all worried. It’s pouring outside so everyone, Orthodox Jew or otherwise, walks past with their heads down and huddled underneath their umbrellas. Also, it’s been six years since I graduated from high school and trashed my long black pleated uniform skirt. Clad in a pair of jeans and Pumas, I look like your average college student.

The first thing that hits me when I enter, even before the pinkness, is the smell of fries. It’s salty and oily and completely overwhelming. I definitely want some. I’m also craving ketchup. Instead, I sit down at a counter (also pink) against the wall and near a potted plant and look at the menu, large enough and bright enough to be read from twenty feet. Everything on the menu looks pretty good, even the cheeseburger, but it is the large picture of the iced coffee with the gigantic ice cubes floating in a sea of milky brown that keeps catching my eye. It’s one of the few things I can order in this establishment.

But I don’t. I’m not ready to stand in line with the others. I don’t want my iced coffee anywhere near their cheeseburgers, bacon or even their fries.

From my counter perch, I spy on the eaters. Behind me, there’s a rather large girl wearing a striped pink shirt enjoying lunch with a skinny friend. I notice her right away because of the shirt. I want to go over and advise her against wearing horizontal stripes in the future, but I pause for a few minutes and when I turn back around she and that skinny one are gone. They’ve been replaced by a guy in a backwards baseball cap and a white tee shirt. A few minutes later, he’s gone, too. His seat has been filled by a teenage boy in a horizontally striped shirt. It’s a little better on him, but only marginally so. Horizontal stripes flatter no one.

I turn to my left so I can better see what people are eating. The cheeseburger that had looked so good on the menu looks puny and pathetic sitting in front my table neighbor. The melted cheese is incredibly orange and plastic looking. Not to mention that cheese melting on meat is just gross and unnatural. The Asian woman to my left eats an egg sandwich cheese and I can’t find any religious objections to her choice except the color–the eggs are practically fluorescent and the cheese, it’s just as orange as it is on the cheeseburgers.

Then there’s the matter of the buns. Where have all the fluffy buns gone? Instead, the ones I see are flat and greasy looking. I realize this has something to do with the way the patrons are chowing down. They squeeze the buns between their fingers before they unhinge their jaws. The sandwiches fit in easily and they finish entire burgers in three or four bites and then wash down the meal with fries and coke. Which reminds me, I should probably check to see if the guy in the horizontal stripes is still sitting behind me. Nope, he’s still there. He must be a careful chewer.

My stomach starts growling. It wants those fries or at least something better than the Tasti D Lite it got for lunch. I contemplate some packets of ketchup. Hanging over the condiment and plasticware section is a photo of the New York City skyline, pre-9/11. I guess if you’re going to hang a photo of the Twin Towers, the condiment station is as good a place as any. A couple of wall panels to the right of the Twin Towers, there’s some artwork, pastel tissue paper cut to resemble Stars of David and mezuzot. They blend in nicely with the color scheme but are as out of place in a McDonald’s as I feel.

I refrain from checking out the restrooms. Starbucks is next door and the baristas never hassle you if you use the bathroom without ordering a latte. But I probably will. I’m hungry and Starbucks’ coffee is kept far, far away from the cheeseburgers.