his shop and they walked outside.
Rainfall had subsided to a languorous sprinkle. Steam wafted up from Atlantic Avenue’s sewers. Silhouettes of shopkeepers heaving closed their store gates. A yellow taxicab skidded across the slick road and braked hard at the traffic light. They heard the traffic signal click from orange halting hand to white running man. Ye Olde Liquor Shoppe’s neon sign hissed. Without the fire between their lips, the summer evening chilled their bones. Bic hailed the taxi and the driver pulled over.
“Will you join me, Malik?” he asked, getting into the cab.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He propped his skateboard in the backseat, getting in first. He waved good-bye to Rashaud and Anwar. “Thanks, sir. Bye, Rashaud. See you soon.”
“Good night, friends, and be careful,” said Bic. He got into the car, which sped off following a chain of ticking green lights, changing one after another.
“Where are you off to, Rashaud?” asked Anwar.
“Just meetin’ some guys in the city.”
“Will you take the train? May I walk with you?”
“Sure thing.”
Anwar wanted to tell Rashaud something to hearten him, but he couldn’t find his words. They walked toward Flatbush Avenue, and no one was about. Anwar felt like they were the last men on earth. A strange idea, being stranded with another man .
“It is always good to see you, Rashaud.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Anwah.”
“Please, Rashaud, no more Mr. Anwar business. I have known you for years!”
“Habits don’t die,” said Rashaud. He leaned over and gave Anwar a hug.
Anwar hugged him back, surprised. Though hugs and hand-holding were common between men back home, he felt himself stiffen. He patted Rashaud’s back one more time and said, “Home safe.”
He watched his friend walk in through the glass doors of the Atlantic Avenue station, waiting until Rashaud was no longer visible. Anwar worried for his skinny friend, worried if he was taken care of. Some jackals out there were keen on hurting an innocent fellow.
* * *
It was eight o’clock. Hashi would be waiting, sitting at the dinner table, unwilling to eat without Anwar. He took a different route home that evening, longer and roundabout. He walked down Atlantic Avenue, toward the bright lights of the mall, past the auto body shop and monstrous storage facility, where the world became darker and quieter. As he crossed over to Fulton Street, partygoers emerged from the subway. A legless man zipped around in his wheelchair, in the middle of the street, paying compliments to women. Despite the new culinary developments the busiest establishment was Happy Heavens Chinese restaurant. A new Trinidadian roti shop, which made boneless fluffy chicken roti slathered in yogurt, had become a neighborhood favorite—Anwar had yet to try it. The B26 bus dropped off a few nurses who were about to begin the night shift at Woodhull. They shook their hands to fan their faces, assaulted by the muggy air after their thirty-minute air-conditioned ride. It amazed Anwar how in a few minutes you could be in a different world. South of his shop, reggae blasted from a minivan stereo and somehow the horde of women leaning on it talked fast and slow at the same time, because of the lilt in their voices. Yet, on this side of Atlantic Avenue, the store signs had none of the Caribbean neon or Arabic scrawl; instead there were Black-owned hair salons (more churches perhaps meant more barbers per capita, too) with alliterative names like Cool Kutz and Burkina Beauté, and, of course, one that strayed from conventions of naming: Bic’s Razor.
Their own neighborhood, between Fort Greene and Bedford-Stuyvesant, was now considered Clinton Hill. Newcomers remained blissfully oblivious of the longtime residents who lived in prewar buildings and brownstones and housing projects nestled amid tall brick churches and storefronts.
Anwar turned left onto his block, half-expecting to see his home haunted
Rainfall had subsided to a languorous sprinkle. Steam wafted up from Atlantic Avenue’s sewers. Silhouettes of shopkeepers heaving closed their store gates. A yellow taxicab skidded across the slick road and braked hard at the traffic light. They heard the traffic signal click from orange halting hand to white running man. Ye Olde Liquor Shoppe’s neon sign hissed. Without the fire between their lips, the summer evening chilled their bones. Bic hailed the taxi and the driver pulled over.
“Will you join me, Malik?” he asked, getting into the cab.
“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He propped his skateboard in the backseat, getting in first. He waved good-bye to Rashaud and Anwar. “Thanks, sir. Bye, Rashaud. See you soon.”
“Good night, friends, and be careful,” said Bic. He got into the car, which sped off following a chain of ticking green lights, changing one after another.
“Where are you off to, Rashaud?” asked Anwar.
“Just meetin’ some guys in the city.”
“Will you take the train? May I walk with you?”
“Sure thing.”
Anwar wanted to tell Rashaud something to hearten him, but he couldn’t find his words. They walked toward Flatbush Avenue, and no one was about. Anwar felt like they were the last men on earth. A strange idea, being stranded with another man .
“It is always good to see you, Rashaud.”
“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Anwah.”
“Please, Rashaud, no more Mr. Anwar business. I have known you for years!”
“Habits don’t die,” said Rashaud. He leaned over and gave Anwar a hug.
Anwar hugged him back, surprised. Though hugs and hand-holding were common between men back home, he felt himself stiffen. He patted Rashaud’s back one more time and said, “Home safe.”
He watched his friend walk in through the glass doors of the Atlantic Avenue station, waiting until Rashaud was no longer visible. Anwar worried for his skinny friend, worried if he was taken care of. Some jackals out there were keen on hurting an innocent fellow.
* * *
It was eight o’clock. Hashi would be waiting, sitting at the dinner table, unwilling to eat without Anwar. He took a different route home that evening, longer and roundabout. He walked down Atlantic Avenue, toward the bright lights of the mall, past the auto body shop and monstrous storage facility, where the world became darker and quieter. As he crossed over to Fulton Street, partygoers emerged from the subway. A legless man zipped around in his wheelchair, in the middle of the street, paying compliments to women. Despite the new culinary developments the busiest establishment was Happy Heavens Chinese restaurant. A new Trinidadian roti shop, which made boneless fluffy chicken roti slathered in yogurt, had become a neighborhood favorite—Anwar had yet to try it. The B26 bus dropped off a few nurses who were about to begin the night shift at Woodhull. They shook their hands to fan their faces, assaulted by the muggy air after their thirty-minute air-conditioned ride. It amazed Anwar how in a few minutes you could be in a different world. South of his shop, reggae blasted from a minivan stereo and somehow the horde of women leaning on it talked fast and slow at the same time, because of the lilt in their voices. Yet, on this side of Atlantic Avenue, the store signs had none of the Caribbean neon or Arabic scrawl; instead there were Black-owned hair salons (more churches perhaps meant more barbers per capita, too) with alliterative names like Cool Kutz and Burkina Beauté, and, of course, one that strayed from conventions of naming: Bic’s Razor.
Their own neighborhood, between Fort Greene and Bedford-Stuyvesant, was now considered Clinton Hill. Newcomers remained blissfully oblivious of the longtime residents who lived in prewar buildings and brownstones and housing projects nestled amid tall brick churches and storefronts.
Anwar turned left onto his block, half-expecting to see his home haunted
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