PhilYouIn.com

I managed a discount store on Livingston Street in Brooklyn in the late 1970s. It was a busy, crazy part of town. In the summer of 1979, I would spend my lunch hour one block north, walking down Fulton Street, which was where all the action was.

The sidewalks were always teeming with shoppers, peddlers and people looking for handouts. There were dozens of storefronts: mostly record stores, clothing stores, and food establishments. And it seemed as though each one had a huge speaker out front, blaring music loud enough to make your chest vibrate.

One late August day I was strolling along in the sweltering heat, reading a book. I was totally engrossed. Many pedestrians were rightfully annoyed because I wasn’t looking where I was going. Little did they know that 30 years later everyone would be walking down the street not looking where they were going, totally engrossed with what they held in their hands.

I was on my way to Junior’s for a sandwich when I came to the corner of Bond Street, and as I absent-mindedly took one step off the curb, my head still in my book, a car came speeding by, narrowly missing me as it made a right turn onto Fulton Street (which was still open to traffic way back then). It startled me. As I looked up, a white guy in the passenger seat stuck his head out the window and yelled at me, “Move, spic!!!”

I had no idea what that word meant; I had never heard it before that instant. But I knew by the way it was literally spat from his mouth that it was something ugly. Had to be a racial epithet, I thought.

I knew he couldn’t be referencing Jews, because I didn’t look Jewish. I tanned easy, so maybe he thought I was Puerto Rican. Or even Black. It didn’t matter. I could never stomach stupid racists. I got really angry.

In fact, I was incensed. So I went after him.

I ran down the center of Fulton Street, my book tucked under my arm. I was no longer oblivious to my surroundings; I was aware of every detail. The people on the sidewalk who had stopped to watch the action. The cars traveling in the opposite direction, honking their horns at me. I didn’t care; I got more enraged with every stride (I was really kind of nuts).

The first record store I ran past, Donna Summer was singing about Bad Girls. Forty feet later I encountered a new singer: Prince, screaming Wanna Be Your Lover. Then Michael Jackson imploring me, Don’t Stop! (Till You Get Enough).

Halfway down the very long block there was a red light, so I finally caught up. When I pounded on the window, the driver looked like he was going to have a stroke. He must have already been nervous, being one of the only white people in the area; now he had a crazy guy banging on his car. I was seething; I ran around the front of the car to the passenger side and grabbed the antenna, bending it till it broke.

Lucky for me, the light turned green, and the driver happily took off before his bigoted passenger could get out and break me in half. I hopped onto the sidewalk before the oncoming traffic could flatten me.

I stood leaning against a lamp post for support, my library book in one hand, the car antenna in the other, breathing heavy. To my left, a guy stood in front of a cardboard box with a deck of Tallyho playing cards resting on top, exhorting people to play three-card monte. To my right, a guy selling cassettes and 8 tracks.

He was busy changing tapes in his cassette player when he looked up.

“What’d he do?” he asked. Apparently, he witnessed what had transpired.

“Called me a spic,” I responded.

“Oh…” he looked me up and down. “You Spanish?”

Ahh. I knew it!

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I replied.

“Guess not,” he said, then popped Stevie Wonder into his player.

As I walked back to work, Living For The City faded away behind me.