Like I said earlier, my stint in Hartford lasted a grand total of four years. I guess it was my version of going away to college. The school of hard knocks and all that corny shit. But I’d long passed graduation and it was time to get to steppin’.
Brooklyn was meant to be my arrival and Bed Stuy my new home base.
I’d been lucky enough to slide into town right before landlords caught on to the fact that they could triple their rent prices without missing a beat. The locals might clutch their pearls at the jump, but the out of towners who were starting to flood the area didn’t even bat so much as an eyelash. And yes, I was one of those out of towners. But at the time, I thought there was no way I could destroy the existing ecosystem. I honestly felt I was part of that ecosystem.
I lucked up on a cute, little one bedroom on the top floor of a brownstone on Halsey between Tompkins and Throop. It was tiny but it was mine and only mine, and I loved it. My absentee landlord was some Armenian guy who owned several run-down buildings scattered between my block and Eastern Parkway. He lived in Jersey City and did not give a fuck what went on in my crib as long as I paid my rent on time and didn’t burn the place down. That systemic negligence worked in my favor, for a while at least.
I looooooooooooooooved Bed Stuy.
I could walk out onto the street pretty much any time of day or night and there’d be something to get into within a matter of seconds. Every other guy I bumped into was a famous rapper. Ol’ Dirty Bastard shot a music video around the corner from my crib. Half the girls heading to the Kingston-Throop subway station looked like supermodels on their way to a photo shoot. Cop spots were in abundance. It was intoxicating.
Block parties, brownstones, fried fish joints and fiends, fiends, fiends.
It made me laugh to think of what I’d dealt with all those years in Hartford- living in that grey, depressing Hare Krishna squat, fighting for the tiniest sense of culture and community. Now I could just walk one minute over to Fulton Street and buy a fresh new pair of the latest Nikes without a second thought. Hot off the presses. And then immediately grab a decent slice of pizza. Then stop for a moment to admire the guys playing basketball at the court right down the block from my crib. And then go upstairs, do some dope and coordinate some outfits to go with my new Jordans.
