Big City of Dreams

The other day I turned toward the subway doors at Atlantic Ave. and was met by the frightful entreat of a shrunken white women,
"I'll move when the train stops. Ok?"
"You're fine!" I smiled firmly planted quite a few feet away.
"I mean just wait for the train to stop, Ok, and I'll move."
I smiled harder, holding my unchanged position, "I didn't ask you to move."
"Don't worry. I will."

My subway buddy chalked it up to our imposing Blackness. I want to call the b#tch crazy but I know she wasn't. The scaly red creature was just afraid. Painfully so.

Then, today, while making my way from the Bergdorf side of 5th Ave. to the ABC side in the midst of the Hispanic Columbus Day Parade (which kinda jumped off) I catch a Puerto Rican tween perched on a police barricade cheesing hecka hard. Naturally my eyes are drawn to the source of his amusement, a snowy haired septuganerian (read: dirty old white man) whose subsequent overheard nasty query, "all six inches?" makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands. Trolling parade for young Latin ass? Recalls Madonna and Mark Foley. Sometimes, I think you should be able to arrest somebody for just thinking foul sh#t.