Boston, July 4 (1977)

Black men walking on ball bearings own this jungle street.

Wanna love my white skin and the green American blood

Money right out of my

Allotted six cubic feet of body space.

Pimps, harlots, junkies

Of assorted national origins

Have their fingers in the great cheesecake

And I have the cakewalk blues…

I’m thinking of the Winter past, when I was held up for my groceries. Yes. I had taken my food stamps down to the Stop and Shop and stocked up on staples. It was snowy, and the ground crunched as I made my way back to the apartment with the bag. There were slick spots, so I was looking down. I missed the approach of the huge, tall black dude. He blocked my path. His hands were in his pockets. I leaped ahead to the possibility he was concealing a weapon. I assumed he wanted me to assume just that. He’s very cool, this dude.

“Don’t want no trouble, man. Just what you got in the bag.”

It’s very cool in the cold, our breath rising in mist from our faces.

“I just got my groceries, man.”

“Let’s see what all you got.”

He indicates the park bench. I comply. I am recalling that Tyler, the owner of the Westland Avenue Parking Garage and Car Wash, told me just a few days before that he got held up in the office at gun point. Cleaned out his register and safe, but he didn’t get fucking blown away. I don’t want any holes in myself either. And C, the father I never had, also, a few years back, lost his watch as I looked on from a distance. I myself had been held up before. I gave ‘em the four cents that I had in my pocket. I turned every pocket inside out. I did not have to do an orifice check. One by one, I take the groceries out of my bag and set them on the bench.

“OK. You can go.”

I leave the dude with the groceries, the bag, sitting on the bench. He’s putting the stuff back in the bag. I look back just the once, and that’s what I see happening. On my shaking legs I walk back the way I came, in the direction of the Stop and Shop.

I stop in at the Garage, where I work week nights, six to midnight. Tyler’s in his office. He comes out to say hi. It’s not usual for me to drop in unless I’m picking up my checque, or dickering about the schedule.

“What’s up, Cal?”

“I just got held up.”

“Welcome to the club!”

I buy the same groceries again. On the way up the street, again, one of the prostitutes, looking a little ill in the daylight, walks past.

“I saw all that go down, baby,” she says. “That’s some bad shit!”

“Thanks for saying,” I say, not breaking my stride. It was very cold. It was too cold for more chat. It crosses my mind that my assaulter could repeat the stunt. This time, I’ll take the bullet. I gotta eat, man.

Shit.