You walk to the Castle Hill train station from your East Tremont apartment. You climb the four flights of stairs to the turnstile. You take out your yellow and blue metro card from the second space in your wallet where your green and white metro card was once housed as well as the orange and white metro card before that. You and this walk, those stairs, and these various colored metro cards have had this relationship for a long time.

The woman sitting behind the bulletproof, knife-proof, flame resistant, kindness shield glass tells you there are no downtown trains today. You know what she said and you know what to do but you wait. You stare through the bulletproof, knife-proof, flame resistant, kindness shield glass and wait for further instructions. She unexcitedly looks up from her Ebony Magazine. She tells you to take the 4 bus to Parkchester. You know it is faster to walk. You and that walk, those stairs, no downtown trains at this stop, and annoyed women behind bulletproof, knife-proof, flame resistant, kindness shield glasses have had this relationship for a long time.

You arrive at an overcrowded Parkchester. The escalators are off and there are cops checking bags at a card table posted in front of payphones that have not been used since your metro card was orange and white. They do not stop you. You are not a man or wearing un-Christian like garb so they are not interested. You swipe your metro card through the turnstile. It asks you to please swipe again. You do. It asks again and the line that has formed behind you grows impatient and distressed. Your malfunctioning metro card has ruined their entire day. It finally allows you to go, informing you of its expiration date and wishing you a nice day. You almost say “thank you” to this machine that is far more polite than the woman behind the bulletproof, knife-proof, flame resistant, kindness shield glass but think better of it. Being seen talking to machines today, might get your bag checked tomorrow.

The train is here. The only stop it has made before this is Pelham Bay Park. People who live in Pelham Bay Park rarely take the 6 train so it is empty. However, those of you that normally get on at Castle Hill, Zerega, and Westchester Sq. are all on this elevated platform preparing to race for a cold plastic seat. You get a seat but kindly offer it to an old woman who could not outrun a young man in a UPS uniform. She thanks you in Spanish; you smile politely. You and malfunctioning various colored metro cards, overcrowded train stations, and old women too slow to outrun young men in uniforms have had this relationship for a long time.

You get off the train at 125th Street. You walk west. A woman with a beautiful dark complexion free of blemishes and diluted bloodlines asks if she can braid the heap of bush-like hair that springs from your scalp. You politely decline. There is another on Park and Madison and 5th who you also politely decline. By the time you reach what is Adam Clayton Powell Blvd. in Harlem but 7th everywhere else, you are out of polite refusals. For the rest you have avoiding eyes and a closed mouth.

You walk past a store on Frederick Douglas. It sells electronics and clothing and jewelry and the guy upstairs does haircuts and the guy downstairs does tattoos. There is a man outside handing out flyers. He gives you one. It advertises their new pizza delivery service. You throw it out at the nearest trashcan because you still have the one from yesterday in your back pocket. You and these beautifully dark, hair braiding women, and men who hand out flyers for stores that sell electronics and clothing and jewelry and the guy upstairs that does haircuts and the guy downstairs that does tattoos have had this relationship for a long time.

You reach your destination, a fast food joint across the street from the only book store in Harlem and next door to the twenty-seventh- make that twenty-eighth (they just put a new one on 2nd)- sneaker store. Your manager informs you of your tardiness. He tells you the biscuits need buttering. You apologize and promise to do better tomorrow. He lets it go. He knows you and that walk, no downtown trains, annoyed women behind bulletproof, knife-proof, flame resistant, kindness shield glasses, overcrowded platforms, malfunctioning various colored metro cards, old women too slow for seats taken by young men in uniforms, beautifully dark hair braiders, stores that sell jewelry and electronics and clothes while the guy upstairs cuts hair and the guy downstairs does tattoos and biscuits that need buttering will have this relationship for a long time.