On the usual hot and humid September morning in Baton Rouge, I walked to
the corner of Rembrandt Avenue and Harry Drive to catch the number 89
bus, my imaginary passport to Mecca-Southern University. Waiting when I
arrived was another high yella brotha sipping a Sprite. He wore Guess
Jeans, a cranberry Hilfiger, and was built a couple larger than my medium
frame, I guessed him to be in his late teens though his tone chest
prof
ile suggested an older age or spending most of his time at the gym.
He was standing at the same spot I usually stand and wait for the bus
when I wait here. Since there was no bus in sight, I guardedly walked
over and stood at the far end of the wall. He continued to drink his
Sprite as I observed him from the corner of my eye. I pretended to occupy
myself by looking through my book bag or glancing down the street for any
approaching bus. He ended our brief silence by asking,
"Whatup playa!"
"Chillin'," I replied as he tossed the now empty Sprite bottle across
the street."
"You go to SU, too?"
 
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