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Two Cents: Chronicles of a Tri-State writer chick... |
Just
Got Played…Thursday Morning (sung to the tune of Johnny Kemp’s
“Just Got Paid”…) It’s been a long day, dammit. You know, the kind where your whole body’s left aching and beat-down as though Tae-Bo just came, saw and conquered your ass? Yeah, well… This morning, someone apparently came, saw and conquered my damn wallet. Right out of my Jansport backpack while I was walking down Church Ave. |
I was on the way to an interview for a weeklong temp job (don’t ask me why the company felt the need to conduct interviews for such a short term position, but anyway…). The morning was so warm and beautiful that I decided to turn my nose up at the inhumanely packed city bus and do a happy little Jill Scott (“a long walk,” heh heh) to the subway.
I was in high spirits. Hell, it was a beautiful morning. Almost felt bluebirds on my shoulder and shit. Until I heard the soft voice of the Afro-puffed girl behind me on the subway platform:
“Excuse me, miss—but your bag’s open.”
As I stared agape at the wide-open compartment where I keep my “everyday stuff,” I came down real quick. It was almost like someone pointing out the fact that your fly’s open—only that this time, there was the added freak-out factor of my wallet. As in, missing. Gone. Poof.
Perhaps you can relate to that “just been played” vibe—you know, the moment you realize that someone’s jacked your shit. Or towed your car. Or broken into your apartment. It’s that calm, almost surreal “Okay-I’m-not-gonna-panic-because-I-know-this-isn’t-really-happening” feeling.
Too bad it only lasts for a split second.
Yep, it was gone, man. Everything else—the cell phone, trusty notepad, even my checkbook—was still nestled cozily inside, chillin,’ just staring up at me as though I were crazy—but the wallet was definitely M.I.A. I quickly retreated, retracing my route, foolishly thinking that perhaps it just fell out when I forgot to zip up my backpack and was lying in the gutter, kicked to the side unnoticed by people in their mad haste to catch the train. Or, like…maybe someone’ll mail it back to me with cash, driver’s license, ATM and Social Security card intact…
Yeah, okay. And then I woke up.
As I stomped home with my lip poking out further and further, men inexplicably saw my darkly angry expression as an invitation to say things like, “Hi, gorgeous” as I pushed by. (I vowed to punch out the first knucklehead to say, “Hey…smile!”) When I got home, I did the whole “tears of frustration” thing at the fact that my budget had just been tightened by over $100. I screamed, threw things, put a mental hex on the sticky-fingered bastard—you know, the usual stuff. Meanwhile, I heard a little voice in the back of my head, taunting me:
Yeah…how ya like Brooklyn now?
In it, I heard the disdain of folks who refer to Kings County as “Crooklyn”; the voice of my Queens-dwelling cousin who squealed, “Ewww…why you livin’ in Brooklyn?!” as if I’d just signed a year’s lease to rent a raw sewage-filled gutter. I could hear them smugly saying, “Yeah, look at her now!” as I pondered my next move.
The one thing about crying, though, is that it drains you. And after a while, the realist in me took over as I grew tired of bitching. A couple of things became clear:
-
It could have been worse—at least I didn’t get knocked upside the head or shot up.
-
A friend of a friend was carjacked last week—homegirl was yanked right out of her ride and left there in the street. Could have been me.
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I could have come home instead to find my beautiful (well, I happen to think so) apartment ransacked by burglars. (Note to self: What’s up with that renter’s insurance?)
Basically, shit happens. Anywhere. Yeah, I could have not gone to the interview (my first instinct—should have followed it, I guess), I could have gotten on the crowded bus and avoided the pickpocket, or perhaps my wallet could have been stolen while visiting my parents in Stamford, CT. If it didn’t happen today, it might have happened tomorrow. Or next week. Whatever. You live and you learn. I’m still one of Brooklyn’s beloved, “adopted” daughters. And like a loved one, although there are things about her that irk me, it’s all love just the same.
(Little irritating back-of-my-head voice): Like I said—how ya like Brooklyn now?
I like her just fine, heifer. Now, shut up.
