When I was 18, and immortal, I used to hitchhike by myself all over the county and beyond.
The music is straight out of a James Bond movie car chase. Thrilling with soaring violins and fast edits to heighten the suspense. Zoom shots of the gazelle’s panicked eyes panning out to show the cheetah closing in for the kill. A driving drum beat underpins the action.
In 2007 I had finally earned that BA in Literature Writing and told my good friend Neil that I was considering a solo trip to Venice to celebrate. I’m not sure I’d have actually gone, but telling him took care of me waffling or backing down. The man is relentless.
If there’s a wrong way to do things, that’s the way I’m going every single time. Without fail.
There was that night about five years ago when our super, Kent (the best super in Harlem, btw), was relaxing after a long hard day taking care of his fifteen buildings when he was shocked to hear gunshots.
It had been years since that kind of gun play happened around here.
When JJ, my $3,000 street rescue, took me hostage in 2005 she was possibly six months old and pregnant. After she had her litter of five, I began feeding her tiny cans of Fancy Feast because those hungry little fiends were sucking the calories out of her as fast as she could inhale them. If either my partner or I moved in the general direction of the kitchen, a gray blur would whip past us and if we actually went into the kitchen we would find Miss JJ on the counter on her hind legs with her front paws on the cupboard door.