I'd like to think that people are incapable of scaring me. I'd like to think I'm untouchable, immune to the plaguing fears of the common man. I'd like to think that nobody's out to get me.
We kept on playing cards, and then Shawn ran by the window, and then all Miss Sylvia's babies, the innumerable teens who live in-and-out of her house, flooded by like the levees had crumbled again.
"Lil Remo got shot!" was all we heard. Our street was cordoned off for days. I've checked, since then, to see who exactly took a bullet that day. No Google search reveals the police report, no mention of a shooting on Washington Ave that night. We didn't imagine it; it simply went unnoticed.
I don't care, that was awfully nice.
I wish I wouldn't.
When the sirens roll by, I peek out between Venetian blinds to see what drama is unfolding on my street. I'm afraid Lil Remo followed us to Syracuse and got shot again, just to freak us out. I'm that white guy, peering from his perceived safe space thinking I'll probably be okay.