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The next week after school, Gene invited me to explore an underground train yard called the 175thStreet lay-up. I didn’t hesitate to say yes, but I learned my lesson from my experience with T-Kid at the Ghost Yard. I knew where my cousin Junior kept his 357 Smith and Wesson and I snuck it out, fully loaded.I met Disco, Fize, Dint and Zook and got along with them right away. We all agreed that if we caught any writers in the lay-up, we would fuck them up and take their shit. They all had knives and machetes.I wanted to show my gun badly but didn’t trust Gene. He would probably tell Junior to score points with him. My cousin had Mike Tyson-like power in his day and would have severely fucked me up for such a serious infraction.I found the 175th Street lay-up way more creepier than the Ghost Yard. You entered from the train station and it was at least 4 city blocks deep into the pitch black tunnel that had a serious bend somewhere in the middle that made it appear that trains came out of nowhere. You could either walk on a narrow, one foot wide ledge that was muddy and slippery or you on the tracks. Either way, if a train came, you had to lean flat back against a wall while the train sped past you eight inches away from your nose. You could clearly see the passengers inside. I once took out my dick and pissed on the train as it past me.Once you got to the entrance of the lay-up, it felt like something out of Raiders of the Lost Ark. The stairs and walls were made out of concrete and every single inch of it was bombed. There were Min,Boe, Rich, Zephyr, Rasta, Futura 2000 tags as well as the more famous neighborhood writers like Jon-One, Rize, Eps Tc5, Nel-One, Little Man, Stem and Con Two. It was an unbelivable experience.Once in the lay-up, there was 4 to 5 trains parked on both sides. The motors of the trains were still running, making eerie sounds. The middle of the lay-up was clear and there was a big “NE” throw-up on the wall. Ne was Min-One.I got into the car of the first train that I saw and I smelled chicken. I looked in the conductor’s booth and found a bag of kentucky fried chicken with an extra large coke. I got excited and started eating the chicken. I didn’t want to share with the others, not until I had enough anyway. The chicken was lukewarm and the coke still cold. I wondered where it came from when I heard the door in the train slam. I looked and it was a big, angry, black conductor. “Why you little motherfucking son of a bitch....eating my motherfucking chicken!”
I'm just writin' my name while I'm talkin' on the phone.
Re: N E W Y O R K C I T Y -
07-29-2012, 09:40 PM
