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Thursday, October 29, 2009 was just like every other day of my life. Number 4. Call. Speed Dial. Girlfriend. It took no more than 5 seconds to let her know that I had arrived at our office and that I was waiting for her downstairs. It was quiet. Real quiet. This tree-lined block in Brooklyn at 10am on a Wednesday morning never made a lot of noise. I saw all four of them approach me. 2 kept walking. 2 stopped. They were young. Real young. 14. 15. Maybe. Whispers ensued. My blackberry was checked. My girlfriend came out and we were ready to go. “Hey mista! You know what time it is?” Yeah. 10 of 10. I guess the two kids didn’t have a watch or cell phone. I kept it moving. “Yo, why you starin’ at my man like that?” one kid said.  Confusion, but don’t fool me for a rookie in the game. We kept it moving. “Yo, mothafucka! Why you lookin’ at me like that?” he repeated. I ain’t lookin’ at you. “You sure?” Positive.
 
We turned the corner and they followed. Two young teenagers. Not in school. Bored. And it was just about to get more intense. “Yo! Why you walkin’ away you from me you piece of shit. I wanna fight you. I’m gonna fight you!” Options. What options do I have ran through my head as quickly as the time I was in the middle of a gun-fight in Port Au Prince and as quickly as the time when I was in the middle of a police riot in Swaziland with an RPG flew three feet from my head. Make one wrong move, and you can all start preparing what you would say to my mother at my funeral. “Yo! I’m gonna fuck you up! I’m gonna fight you!”
 
Yeah, I know you want to fight me, but if I disrespected you, then I apologize. No harm intended. Face to face. Girlfriend. 20 feet away watching. My hand extended. Olive branch proposed. “Don’t touch me!” The talker kept talking, the quiet one seemed embarrassed. The quiet one took my hand and nodded his head. “YO! I’M GONNA FIGHT YOU!” The talker kept talking. No, you’re not gonna fight me, that is the last thing you want to do right now. We kept it moving. They kept following. “Yo! Let’s fight! Right now! Let’s fight!” Face to face. His hands clenched. His hands shaking. His lips quivering. Nervous. Real young. Really nervous.
 
I saw the punch coming before he even thought about throwing it. The shooter is always more nervous than the one shot. He swung and barely missed. He stepped back. I stepped forward. “Give me 10 dollas!” Get the fuck out of here with that 10 dollars. The quiet one kept quiet. The talker now realized his options had come to an end. The anger had been released. The punch didn’t connect, but the anger got out. You both hungry? The quiet one shook his head yes quietly. The talker not trying to show defeat, agreed with a mean mug on his face. But hungry too. Let me take you both to breakfast and we can talk about what I do and how I do it. Both real hungry when they took a big bite out of the egg and cheeses with bacon that the deli served them with my ten dollars.
 
We shook hands. The quiet one finally spoke. “C’mon son. This guy is a good guy. Apologize.”  The talker apologized.  You can’t do that. You can’t just run up on people on the street and try to knock em’ out.  You have more intelligence than that. More promise. More potential. I go to work everyday for you. I’m the last one you want to hurt.  More apologies.  More bites into the sandwich.  Another one? Of course. Whatever you want. A pack of gum. And now even a smile and laugh. Three minutes ago, you tried to knock me out…now you sayin’ that “I’m your man.” Funny how money changes situations…
 
Poverty and Anger. Mix lik