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March 20, 2004

Cat Calls

Crimson Harvard sweatshirt. Old Navy bootcut jeans. Payless shoes. I am walking down the street with nothing more than five dollars in my pocket, staring at the crumbling buildings that lie across the student union. The air is thick and clammy, filled with the sweat of an early morning shower. But the boys on High Street don't seem to mind. They're lounging around the entrance to Starbucks, staring at the people drinking iced chai and frappuccino out of paper cups and cherished ceramic mugs. They've never tasted their mocha lattes or experimented with expresso. They've never bitten off a piece of biscotti, or licked foam away from their upper lips. They haven't really tasted anything in years.

Walking past the bank, they stand and watch me coming closer. A few scratch their torn shirts and rub their greasy heads in anticipation. The scrawniest of the group inches away from the Starbucks door and holds out his own styrafoam cup, jingling the change in excitement. "Yo! You gots some change, baby? A dollar for old Billy? Damn, baby, I know you gots some money for me."

I say nothing, walking past the Starbucks with my purse clutched safely in my arms. Half a block later, his friends have caught up with him, lingering around the alleys with their own styrafoam cups and plastic bottles, shaking small collections of change.

"I loves me a college girl, yessiree, I do," Billy assures me from Beekman's Deli. "All smart an' shit. I'll be good to you, baby. Fuck, I'll be good all over."

His toothless friend joins him from atop a bicycle, teetering dangerously close to the flithy bricks of the bookstore. "Hey, girl! I'm a Indian! I'se an Indian girl, you hear me?! I'se Cherokee! Whattaryou? Whattaryou?"

"She's a college girl, all right," Billy tells him loudly. "She don't talk to no nigga strangers. Nu-uh. D'you see the ass and tits on that fine thing right there?! Goddamn, girl, where you goin'? Where you goin', honey?"

"You'se goin' too fast," the bicycle man gurgles, spit landing on his chin. The bike is a 1970s Schwinn model, completely rusted over with a dented fender. He straddles his bony legs between the seat, and scrapes the pedals against the sidewalk. "You'se too fast."

"Nigga can't get a dollar no motherfuckin' way," Billy comments, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. "Yessir. You sure you ain't got no money for Billy, baby? You'se sure you don' wanna fuck with Billy, eh? Come on, baby..."

I say nothing as he pleads from the edge of the street, grabbing at his crotch with ashy fingers. I bite my lip as he spits on the crusted asphalt, and wipes his chapped lips with the back of his hands. And I keep quiet as he takes his styrafoam cup and returns to his post at Starbucks, waiting and ogling at the next person to happen to pass by.

Crimson Harvard sweatshirt. Old Navy bootcut jeans. Payless shoes. I am walking down the street with nothing more than five dollars in my pocket, feeling the need to say a little bit more about the crumbling buildings that lie across the student union.

Today's Soundtrack: "It All Falls Down," Kanye West, featuring Syleena Johnson

Best Part of the Day: Fish tacos at Baja Fresh (with lots of Pico de Gallo over everything)... Matt, you've created a monster.

posted at 10:08 p.m.

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