So we kick it, right. Me and Anthony. Me and Anthony and Daniel. Me, Daniel, Anthony, Charlie, whoever feels like kicking it in Williamsburg tonight. We are Cali natives, most of us. Anthony matches his Kangol to his shoes, and we are easily picked out of any crowd as Pacific Ocean dwellers, transplanted to occupied Brooklyn. I don't know exactly who used to live here before, but this is where NYU kids come to chill on the weekends, when the village just isn't trendy enough. Not to say that we are like that. No, just to say that we are NYU kids, and we chill in the apartments on Ten Eyck Street. We make pies and beats, rice and T-shirts. Anthony and I exchange puns. We kick it.

At a certain point in every evening, I realize that I have to go to one of my two jobs in the morning that I really need to go, because it’s getting late. I have to prepare a lesson plan for the tutoring center, or get up early to finish homework for linguistics class. Maybe Doreen and I can catch the L train back to Manhattan. Maybe Doreen didn't come with me tonight. So I say goodbye to all the boys, give Chris and Beba quick hugs. It’s winter. It’s cold. I have a scarf now, which, by the way, I get compliments on all the time. Nights like this are easy.

I pick up the L train at the Lorimer stop. I have an Unlimited Metro-Card for the week. My iPod is out of power. My hair is a mess. I wonder if the fifth graders I'll tutor tomorrow have learned long division. Leaning over the edge of the platform and looking down the rails doesn't make the train come any faster. Tonight, there is a man passed out—half of his body under the bench. His legs dangle onto the walkway. There is puke on his shirt and something wet beneath him. He is snoring. He looks like this kid Luis I had a crush on in the sixth grade. I debate whether or not it would be wrong to sit on the bench, above him.

Three men in hooded sweatshirts climb the stairs to my left and approach the man on the ground. The one with the buzz cut pulls his badge from under the hoodie. NYPD. Buzz Cut and his short partner nudge the man with their almost clean tennis shoes. Partner kicks a little harder than he needs to. Juan, Partner says to the man on the ground. Third Guy calls out, Rico! Any Spanish name will do. Buzz Cut kicks him again, tries to get him to come to. Mario, threatens Buzz Cut. You hablo Espanol or Ingles? Juan Rico Mario Man on the ground comes to with a start, just wants to go back to sleep. He says, Yeah. Si. Of course, and looks for a pillow on the white tiling. And it takes three cops to kick him awake. I'm standing three feet away. The batteries don't work in my iPod, and I wish either the train would come or they'd let him go back to sleep. He's passed out, not bothering anybody, they don't even know his real name, and at this point they've decided to call him Señor Hernandez. And the subway is cold, and I feel wet or maybe like puking.

Sometimes, the entire city is a string of events like this, complete planets of moments I don't like, tied like beads, right here, in front of me. Like the time I was on Sixth Ave., and a cab driver pulled all the way up to me to spit at me. Sometimes it’s New York, and I'm black the hardest way. And if you cry too hard, the tears will freeze to your face. And if you get too dizzy from all of this and pass out on the subway, you'll come to with a boot in your face.

But then the train comes. Me, the three officers, and their prey on the platform. I begin to list the greatest things about the city aloud, let my foggy breath make contact with the train window, make the good things tangible. One: This one time, I left my cell phone in a cab. The guys who got it after me, kept it, and returned it to me. Two: This other time, I had a great conversation with a uniformed lieutenant at Bully's Deli. He showed me pictures of himself back in the Dominican Republic. Three: There is a man who plays conga and sings Sam Cooke on the platform at 42nd Street. Tonight I kicked it with three or four folks from the Bay and laughed until the underside of my chin was sore. I take all of these things, say them real breathy, ’til all of the things I want to forget are sweat on the train window, ’til everything I am most afraid of becomes the fog rolling in off the Bay.