On the way to work, the taxi I’m in stops in traffic. On my right, I see a woman yelling to someone across the street, to the left of me. I look to see who she’s talking to and it takes me a moment to discover that the woman she’s having a lengthy conversation with is yelling back to her from across the street four stories up behind dense burglar bars. Must have been out of cell phone minutes.

On the same block, a few moments later, a young woman carrying her baby in her arms is greeted by another young woman with warmth, affection and respect: “Fuck you goin?” Can you feel the love?? I can!

So, right after I made that post about all the lewd and lascivious behavior on the train, there was an announcement on New York 1 news about the NYPD cracking down on such behavior. It seems there were over 1,000 arrests last year alone. Who knew? Now, they are encouraging more women to report any incidents of bad behavior. They want women to know they don’t have to grin and bear it. The news report did not explain how this is to occur though. I suppose you could find the train conductor and maybe they’ll lock the doors until the police arrive. But, I gotta think that if someone is running through the train groping people they won’t stay still. Hmm. Food for thought.

I refuse to give the details on this one but can I just say, I’m up to 3 (three!) stories about men, er, playing with themselves on the train. Is that crazy or what?

So, I look outside the bus window to see this woman running down the street holding her head. She’s going the wrong way on 5th Avenue, and I wonder what she’s running for but I’m not too pressed. Then I hear someone yelling. I look a bit closer. Turns out the woman is chasing her weave as it blows up the sidewalk. The passerby is yelling: “your hair!” as if she can’t see it steadily gliding away. I just wonder how it got off her head in the first place.

So, yesterday I saw the jazz feet guy again. How crazy is that? This time he was out in front of my job. I know I posted these two entries together but I haven’t seen Mr. Jazz Feet in months– maybe a year. Yesterday, his routine was the same. Walkman. Work gloves. Sweats. And, obviously, he was standing on his hands for long periods of time. When he came down he would dance around to the music for a moment then pop right back up on his hands … wiggling his feet to the beat, of course. He made a few people stop and stare but not as many as you’d think considering he was right at a bus stop on 125th Street during rush hour. We Harlemites are immune to such spectacles. One of my co-workers even suggested we recruit him to promote our brand around the neighborhood. Funny, right?

I’m on the bus, which stops at 135th street. I look out the window to see a normal-looking dude standing on the sidewalk in sweats listening to a walkman. Suddenly he upends himself into a handstand and starts to scissor his legs, seemingly to the beat of his music. Now, I must mention it’s about three degrees outside. Brick. And there he goes, doing an upside down version of “jazz hands.” Some kids stopped to watch him-but didn’t get too close. After staying on his hands for a very long time ( a full minute or two), he let himself down, put his hands in his pocket and slowly sauntered away. Only in Harlem.

So, this tall dude stumbles onto the train at 125th Street. His shirt reads, “Hoodlum Entertainment,” which is kind of funny already. I mean, when are we going to stop glorifying crooks and criminals?

Anyway, dude begins pacing around the train car, tossing his big leather jacket from one side of the train to the other and, most notably, having a very wide-ranging and in-depth conversation … with himself. A few notable quotes from his chat:

-”He stuck a dildo in this nigga’s ass and (unintelligible).”
-”They go hell and just talk because (unintelligible).”
-(Loud laugh) “Fuck you. That’s why you brokeback!”

Yeah. That’s exactly what you want to listen to on your daily commute.

Lookit this. Tell me this isn’t funny. They nailed a handle to the wall in order to attach a wire to the chair so they could chain the bike to the chair. This is in a Chinese restaurant on Lenox. C’mon. You know you want to laugh.

Quick one. Same day as the protest (I think). I saw a young man in his mid-twenties hiding behind the columns underneath the Metro North Station on 125th Street. Naturally, I gave him a wide berth, as did the guy walking next to me. We both watched the guy with great interest as he crept from one column to the next with his right hand folded into the shape of a gun. He didn’t have a gun, mind you. But he was holding his hands the way kids do when they are playing cops and robbers. Just when I thought I might be imagining things, I look over at the dude walking to my right. He’s already looking at me and shaking his head. “Only in New York,” he mutters in a gravelly lifelong smoker’s voice. Nah, I think. Only in Harlem.

I work on 125th Street, which is a crazy street any day of the week. During the Sean Bell demonstrations, it was especially crazy. Actually, that’s not entirely true. More accurately, for about 45 minutes it was very surreal at the corner of 125th and Lexington. When a coworker came back from a cigarette break with news that the march (?) rally (?) demonstration (?) had reached our block, we dashed outside. I admit, I was surprised to see people jumping rope in the middle of the intersection, though. A traffic-stopping crowd of protesters (and police) were gathered in a loose circle while the people in the center took turns jumping rope 50 times. I mean, I kinda get it…but not really. My best guess is that it was supposed to be a visual indication of how long it takes to do something 50 times, since 51 shouts were fired at Sean Bell. I can’t quite grasp the corollary between jumping rope and shooting bullets, but the crowd cheered loudly whenever the person jumping made it to 50. I mention that because, since the jumping rope was open to everyone, folks from the ‘hood jumped in too, including a few from our local methadone clinic. Needless to say, that made for a much lower jump count. One old white woman with matted hair and neon makeup was stopped after three very shaky jumps, but the crowd wouldn’t let her off the hook.  “C’mon, you can do it!” they yelled.  So she stayed in there, huffing, wheezing, and talking to herself the whole time.  It was the slowest I’ve ever seen someone jump a rope. I’m sure she’s gonna be feeling the burn for months!

I recorded some of it on my camera’s cell phone—now if I can just figure out how to get it onto this blog!

Okay, so I hear someone out there is referring people to my Harlem blog. I got a few e-mails over the weekend telling me to get it in gear and start posting again. Okay, okay.  So the latest news: My Harlem blog has been picked up by UPTOWN magazine. That means you’re be able to see my Harlem stories both here (in the UPTOWN blog space) and on my Web site (sekouwrites.com).  And for the person who encouraged me not to be so negative, I’ve responded to that allegation before—check the early posts on my Web site—but the short answer is, I’m telling the stories that I think are funny and the ones that make me shake my head. Usually they are one and the same. -smile-  In Harlem, just like every other urban center, there’s a mix of both good and bad. If you want to laugh at the bad, that’s what my blog is for. That doesn’t mean that I hate the area, though. It’s just funny to me. Good? Good.

Yesterday, I went to Pathmark for lunch. Yeah, yeah, I know…but it’s cheap. There was an old lady in a motorized wheelchair in front of me. She asked the server what kind of fish he was serving. The response? A forceful “I don’t know” as if the old lady was wrong. Mind you, this was before the checkout woman with Texas-size curls threw the old lady’s fish down on the counter—likely breaking it into bits because she got mad at another Pathmark employee. Minimum wage is no joke.

Saw a grown woman today—she must have been about 40 years old—riding a neon pink children’s bicycle with purple pedals. She was sitting on it, but the bike was so small that her feet were on the ground and she was using them to push herself along—kind of like a skateboard. Well, a big pink and purple bicycle-looking skateboard. So, anyway, she pushed herself out into the middle of Lexington Avenue and 125th Street against the light as if she were in a hurry to get somewhere. Then, when cars started honking and swerving around her, she sat still, watching it all from the middle of the street. When the light changed and she finally had the right of way, she stayed in the the street, looking back over her shoulder as if she were waiting for someone. The whole time I was watching, her feet never touched the purple pedals.   

On the bus ride home from work, I overheard a brother yelling to a woman right next to him. He wanted to know if she was married. She was. He begged off because the last time he messed with a married woman, he almost got shot. Apparently, what he thought was just the woman’s dog making noise in the living room was actually her husband getting a gun. Our friend from the bus had to jump out the window. The whole bus was smiling at the story.

So this morning when I left for work, this hot pink Range Rover was being used by Cam’ron’s crew as a coffee cup holder. I swear, it looked like a breakfast bar with coffee cups, bagels, and egg sandwiches spread out on the hood.

Harlem is truly frenetic. As a recent transplant from Brooklyn, I think it all seems so strange. My block? Just a microcosm of the whole. Outside, there is an electric pink Range Rover with a hot pink leather interior and chrome rims that seems to serve equal duty as a sofa, weed spot, and lounge. My friends tell me that it has to be Cam’ron’s—the famous rapper. ‘Course, I wouldn’t recognize Cam’ron even if he was sitting in my living room. Hot pink? Are you serious with that?