Laps

I just passed the block where I got jumped the first November I spent in the city. That would have been 2002. Six dudes jumped me and a friend as we were making the block. I had this habit of doing laps, it still comes out from time to time. I'll be out with friends drinking, enjoying, and all of the sudden, I have to leave to make a quick run around the block.

I think it's just that I have too much energy. Or ADD. It all started back in Georgia. Decatur, Georgia to be specific. Back then you could still smoke in bars, which only added to my need for a change in scenery. And it was a place called Trackside...yep, the wrong side of the tracks.

Anyway, that night on 106 and Broadway, we got jumped mid-lap. They put me in a headlock and took the $40 I had tucked in my bra. It wasn't as scary as it may seem. But getting jumped wasn't even the kicker. The real kicker for me was that I was wearing the freshest of fresh jackets. I called it my Michael Jackson jacket. It had a couple of zippers, no, not as many as his, but the jacket made me feel bad. The good kind of bad. The Michael Jackson pre-BAD. And somehow in the series of events that occurred, it got covered in blood. Angry? Nope, I was feral cat mad. It was the first time I'd worn it. An inaugural night! And to think it ended up in the garbage somewhere on Broadway.

So now, anytime I buy something new that I just adore, I wear it to the nearest bodega or bank first. Somehow, taking my suede leopard heels from Buenos Aires, or my grandmother's fur out for a dry run to the corner for powerball ticket seems to break the jinx. Knock wood. After a dry run, and only after will I even think about taking on any kind of lap anymore.