Sidewalk Residency

September 6, 2026 [Nothing in this entry is true] Up there in West Harlem are many homeless people. Well, they're not necessarily homeless. It's just that they don't necessarily have homes. West Harlem is their home. They often hang out on the sidewalk, shooting dice and listening to Spanish music very well into the night. As long as I've lived in New York, I've romanticized the idea of joining them. I've seen it play out many times in my head. Instead of passing them by as I normally would, I would invite myself to take part in their festivities, bearing a bottle of cognac as an offering. The Blacks and the Hispanics would accept this White guy and his generous gift. They would accept him as one of their own, despite his bright white skin and his living down several blocks. I fulfilled half this dream last night, for instead of cognac, I bought them a drink I had never heard of before. That's what they requested anyway. After a long and rather fruitless night, I stumbled upon two West Harlemites on my way home. Mo was a scrawny Puerto Rican man with few teeth, and Toby was a big Black man with a disorder that left his face prone to involuntary movements. I was drawn to them because of Mo's speaker, playing music good and loud. They were posted up in front of a bodega, dancing and making merry with all the passersby, myself included. After I introduced myself, I learned that they were former prison cellmates who had recently reunited. 'I saw Mo on Columbus Avenue the other day,' Toby explained to me, 'and I recognized him from jail.' 'I'm glad I went to jail with you, my brother,' Mo kept saying to Toby. Hanging out with known criminals probably should've been my cue to go home, but they seemed rehabilitated enough. When I offered to get us all a drink, per my romanticizations, Toby requested St. Ides Malt Liquor. I got three of them from the bodega, delighted that I wouldn't have to buy cognac, upset that I wouldn't be drinking cognac. I thought the malt liquor was less than favorable, but they showered me with gratitude. 'We drink for the effects,' Toby said. 'We don't savor the flavor, neighbor.' I paused for a moment, impressed by the wordplay I just heard, and Toby could sense it. 'Proper preparation prevents poor performance,' he continued. Thus began a series of witty lines, all created by him in real time, per the course of our conversation. I'm in constant pursuit of such lines, and so I kept listening to him in bliss. 'Social skills pay the bills,' he said at some point. 'It don't take long to do wrong,' he said at another point. At half his size, Mo was much drunker than Toby. He didn't contribute much besides his laugh. It was one of those contagious laughs. Hearing it, I couldn't help but join him each time. Toby took a break from hisshow,and Mo let me play some requests on the speaker. Feeling good from the malt liquor, I sang the songs for my new friends, and my voice was strong. Proper preparation prevents poor performance. 'You got the ism, Mike,' Toby said. 'You go well-with.' I had never heard such remarks before. I'm not sure what going 'well-with' means, but I took it to be very positive. 'You go well-with, Mike,' Toby said again. 'Thank you,' I said. Mo laughed. 'I don't like how I like you,' Toby said. Mo laughed. The malt liquor must've been hitting him rather hard by then, because he started rambling, his speech even more nonsensical than before. He kept on bringing up their prison days. 'We were locked up in a cell with no bell,' Toby said. Mo laughed and laughed. I was in awe of Toby's talent for the spoken word. And he was smart enough to recognize that I was smart enough to recognize his brilliance. So he pulled me aside to escape Mo's blabbering and recite an original poem. It was titled 'It's Okay Today,' and in just a few lines, it surpassed everything he had said thus far. As thrilled as I was to be his audience, I was equally discouraged. I don't have half the talent he does. How rare it is for me to achieve originality, whereas he does so every other sentence. I'm nothing more than a relayer of his greatness. I'mwell-without. 'I've got a lot to say, Mike,' he said. 'Everything I say is written with elbow grease.' 'You're well-with, Toby,' I said. Mo caught back up with us, upset we had left him. But it wasn't long before the laughs returned. I gave them each my phone number before I said goodbye, which is a regret of mine I shall live with for the next couple of days, as I suspect they'll be wanting more free malt liquor. Walking home, I thought, 'It's okay today.' ~M.C. Leave a comment Subscribe now Share A Night at a Time