Tim and I were parked on Wise Avenue down in Dundalk smoking a joint. It’s an efficient way for me to relax and things had been quite tense driving him around. The kind of tension involved with driving Uber is nothing compared to driving around a friend who is involved in illegal activities.
I’m a good driver and can handle myself, although I think he mostly wanted me around because of my size. I’d seen him handle himself in dangerous situations and was confident that he wouldn’t just sit and watch if something did go down.
We’re about to get out and pickup our carryout. This was in a sketchy neighborhood, so I was constantly checking the mirrors, and what do I see behind me but two teenage blacks walking along the row of cars behind us, in broad daylight mind you, trying car doors. I said, “Look at this shit,” and Tim starts watching the passenger side rearview and they’re still coming, checking every door.
We didn’t have to talk it over.
Nobody suggested it, gave an order, anything like that. We just looked at each other and both our hands went to our pockets while we opened the doors and got out, turning and drawing our knives—not brandishing them but keeping them low, just as the punks came up on the rear of the car.
They came to a stone stop and their jaws dropped and eyes got big like they were hanging puppets and then they just bolted. It was hard not to laugh actually.
In a way I miss hanging out with Tim. The adrenaline rush became kind of addicting after a while.
But getting shot at—even though it might have been fun at the time—was not going to end well. I just had to break ties with him before I ended up dead.
But if I said I didn’t miss it, I’d be lying.
The Boned Zone: Surviving Urban Predation
Don't Get Boned: The Harm City Handbook
