While homeless in
New York City, my friend Marie and I became friendly with a man known as Starr.
Starr presented himself to us as a person well-versed in the ways of the
street, a person more than willing to help look out for a pair of eighteen year
old punk rock girls from the suburbs. Starr was African-American, with cookie-
cutter shaped stars tattooed on his temples. He wore black leather pants that looked
like they had become one with his body from continuous wear, like he had a
darker, second skin from the waist down. One day, the three of us were sitting
on a street corner asking people for spare change to buy heroin when an Indian
man drinking a beer in a brown paper bag set down next to us. The man was
friendly and a little drunk, and over the course of the conversation let it be
known he would like to get to know me better, and flashed a wallet full of
cash. I wanted to get high, but was by no means desperate enough to agree to
have sex with the man. But before I could give him the brush off, Starr took me
aside. “You won’t have to do anything with him,” he said. “Just tell him you
know a spot by the river where you two can go.” Starr opened the small bag he
carried with him wide enough so that I could see that there was a brick inside.
As I walked with the man towards the East River, I felt like I was
outside of myself, watching my body as it ambled down the streets with this
drunken stranger. Starr slunk behind us, keeping his distance, trying to
conceal himself behind monuments and people. The Indian man held my hand
without a care in the world, babbling away. Closing in on the East River Park,
I had to confront the fact that no third option was going to present itself, no
deus ex machina was going to fall from the sky and save the man from Starr’s
brick and line my pockets with gold. I stopped and turned to the man. “You need
to get out of here,” I said. “My friend is going to rob you.” He looked at me,
confused. “You need to go,” I said firmly. We had stopped in the middle of the
block and when Starr rounded the corner, he expected us to be farther ahead, so
he made no effort to hide himself. Finally, the man understood what was about to
happen to him and took off. “What happened?” Starr asked, cradling his bag under his arm. “I don’t know,” I answered. “He said he couldn’t do it, that
he didn’t have it in him. I think he got cold feet.”
