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...or could it have been WHAT you asked me... ...maybe it's WHEN you asked me... all i know is that YOU'RE ON FUCKIN' CRACK... |
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Friday, June 23, 2006 |
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Why NOT to be in Harlem at 1am | |
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As a preview of the perils that await me for the next 10 days, I got a sample of subway life after midnight in Harlem. Walking up to the Cathedral Station stop on the corner of CPW and 110th, I noticed all manner of unsavory types lurking around in the shadows. Descending the stairs into the well lit station I felt a bit relieved to see an MTA employee in the booth... behind 1 inch thick (presumably bullet proof) plexiglass. Swiping through the turnstile I descended down another flight of stairs onto the eerily quiet platform. Even the rats and mice seemed afraid of this station -- tracks are usually teaming with them by this time of night. The warm stench of urine and urban grime permeated the air and there were a few homeless men indulging in their favorite brown bag beverage. No sooner had I taken a seat on the worn wooden bench when a disorderly fellow, strung out on something, came stumbling down the stairs yelling obscenities into the air. Despite the nearly empty station he sits down right next to me and continues to spit out the curse laden gibberish until suddenly the station falls silent again. Out of the corner of my eye I see a glass device emerge from his shirt pocket along with a lighter. This guy was LITERALLY smoking crack! I wish I had the balls to photograph this guy because he would have made the perfect posterboy for this blog taking a fat hit off his crack pipe. Just as he exhaled a massive cloud of almost blue smoke my train came speeding into the station, the blast of warm wind blowing the cloud right into my face. I had to admit I was curious for a split second but thought better of it, held my breath, and headed for the train. Upon boarding there was a rabble of gay ass gangstas. Not the white boy in suburbia driving daddy's escalade and wearing pants around his ankles kind of gay. These Gs were actually flaming gay. You know, the lanky kind wearing bright form fitting clothes, when you're not quite sure which ones are guys and which ones are girls with their lady bits taped up. They talked like thugs (though 1 octave too high and with a slight lisp), had the requisite bling, and even the token guy with a 'fro, but this crew was most certainly not gang bangin... at least not in the traditional sense. |
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