Kids

I just came back from the gym, in a pretty good mood. I hadn't wanted to go; I was thinking Well, I suppose I could go for a short time, and I actually not only the normal cardio workout -- which is thirty minutes on the elliptical, and twenty on the treadmill -- but I did it faster than normal. In spurts, faster than I did it about a week ago. So I was happy.

Then I was driving through my neighborhood, and I came up behind two black kids riding their bikes. This is unusual where I live. When we moved here, we were told that the local phrase was East Shore (the other side of the local river), White Shore (our side). I never really thought about it, but when I would, I had to agree. Not too many black people on our side. Over time, that's started to change. Fine.

The kids, though. One was hunched over the handlebars, weaving slowly back and forth; the other was riding in long, looping curves. I stopped, figuring I would wait until they cleared the intersection, because neither one looked aware that there was anyone else there. Good precaution; the looper turned into my street, and, as I started to turn behind him, abruptly did a 180, crossing right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and sat, dead, until he passed me. I stared at him. He stared at me, muttering something.

I really hope it wasn't something like crazy old white guy. But I bet it was.

They brought back memories of the neighborhood where I grew up, which was mostly Irish and Italian, in New York. I lived in one of those high rise apartments -- it was a high rise at the time; not so much now, I guess. It was a nice enough place. Over time, the character changed, and the kids changed color, too. Mostly, it didn't matter. They were just like us -- lower income, going to the local schools, hanging out at the park. Some, though, had that casual insolence that this kid had. The kind that stared at you. It bothered me then. It bothers me now.

Crazy old white guy? Maybe.

Took the bloom right off my mood, I'll tell you that.