at 24th Street

The cigarette was held furtively, which made me notice it immediately. A kid cupped it in his hand. He was half the size of the tallest one. Probably hadn’t grown since he was seven. As a pack, they were excited and unsteady, never knowing to stay still or keep moving. The cigarette was fake. The tip was aluminum and dabbed with red paint.

“A-K 47 will blast ya! Ack, ack, ack, ack!” The four huddled around a FDNY fire box, each with a small plastic bag of pop pops. They rubbed the sawdust from their fingertips. They threw them into the gutter. A sharp hiccup-y burst. The adults paid no attention. More staccatos. They threw them at each other and yipped. The tall one bent at the knees and pumped his arms in a static dance. Pop pops that didn’t go off were stepped on like bugs.

Starbucks was choked with afternooners and I really didn’t need coffee, so I left. When I walked back outside, the skirmish was in full swing. Yellow cabs were the enemy. Everyone took turns. When they missed, they cursed themselves. When they hit, they ran. One kid threw sidearm like he was angrily pushing a vase off a table. They tried to recalibrate their timing. Targets that turned up the avenue were booed. A handful snapped and crackled against a trunk. The cabdriver slammed on his brakes and the tires muffled a pinched squeal. A parking lot attendant across the street barked like a dog. But the kids were long gone.