Sick Inside

A white suburban kid in a black Suburban is keepin’ it real on wheels. Yankees hat on sideways, chains a-rattlin’, leaning out the window on Central Ave. Wearing a black shirt with gold lettering: THUG 4 LIFE. Yelling obscenities to the chicas.

Oh, yes. Welcome to Jersey City, baby. This ain’t boring, pale, gentrified Suburbialand. No, this is the place where we’re keepin’ it real for the betterment of (hu)mankind. This is where yo’ shit smells too!

Where I’m walking, the street is littered with litter. We got the debris of human consumption, like art, on display for the general public. You won’t see this at the NYC Met: McDonaldland burger wrappers carried by the wind. Oven Fresh Pizza!™ boxes trampled by pedestrians. DJ fliers for The Corkscrew (61 Congress Street; $3 house margaritas on Wed nights!). Payless and/or Target coupons. Used and abused condoms. A dirty syringe. More broken glass from 40 oz. bottles of malt heaven.

I can hear the Ninth Street Light Rail. Clouds above me start spilling their rain. Brrr. Feels more like sleet to me. Must be close to 30 degrees on this restless night. I hope it snows.

I take a detour to Fisk Park on the way home. From here, you get the view of lower Manhattan. I been there once. But this is home now. Jersey City, baby! For better or for worse.

Build yourself up, J.C. Make your boy proud. Gimme a happy ending.