Story # 1: The Death Of My White Liberal Guilt

Before I begin the first story, I should make it clear that I am intoxicated in every episode. I know, I know; every drunk guy thinks he's got fascinating stories, but hopefully these will be put into a context that will have you all on the edge of your seats.

The story starts here, on the northern edge of the block, Brown Street. The incident itself took place right outside the door of a man who once lived in what is my current apartment, which itself was the site for my project last semester. Beat that narrative thread, pal!

Anyway, it was a Sunday night in late August, 2002. I was making a walk that I made every Sunday from one particular bar to another particular bar. I remember thinking to myself, "Why do you always take the same route? Mix it up a little! Think outside the box, man!" Well, I thought myself out of the box and into a mess of trouble.

As I was walking down Brown, I noticed up ahead some youths who were just hanging out in the middle of the street. It was late, and it was dark, so I thought it best to avoid anybody, and hurriedly tried to make it to 2nd Street, which was well lit. As my pace quickened, they began to call at me to come over. Being the slick urbanite that I am, I gruffly declined and moved faster to safety. I was rounding third, when one of them said it. "WHAT! Because I'm black?"

I stopped. I felt like the worst kind of leftist hypocrite. They probably just want a cigarette or something. I believe in the innate goodness of man. I can never let that belief die in me... Within seconds I was surrounded by the four youths and had a knife pressed to my belly. I was asked to empty my pockets, which I did without resistance. They laughed at me, called me something derogatory, and went on their way. I put my hands in my pockets to continue on dejectedly, slouched and beaten, when I felt something in my pocket. It was a five dollar bill. I turned back to these youthful highwaymen and said, "Yo!"

The ring leader spun around in disbelief and marched straight at me. With arms open as though to invite attack, he leaned in to my face and barked, "WHAT?"

"You forgot this," I said, holding out the five. Never have I seen a more pure embodiment of "what the fuck?" He took the five and strutted back to his friends, and I went on my way.

I have never been able to recall my exact thought process, but it seems to me that I emerged victorious. I one-upped them with this gesture that said, "Nice work, boys. Real smooth, no one got hurt. Your future in petty crime is incandescent. I'll be watching out for you fellows!" I tipped them. What do I need five dollars for?

Do you think the guy kept the five for himself, or included it in the larger booty? I like to think he shared.

So the totem for this story is a five dollar bill.