Last night, I was followed and eventually chased through populated streets, increasingly empty alleyways and even a small park by a deranged and skeletal man wielding a pretty large knife (one of those Tanto blades that looks like a small Katana) who periodically screamed at me about “Taking off some bullshit pecker wood and getting the money for some work”, which I was later told is the local colloquial for crack cocaine.

I was kind of amused at first, but I couldn’t shake the guy, and he had that blade out, dragging it against walls and cars like the hook handed villain in a shitty (but now all to real) horror movie.

For a while I refused to believe that this was happening. The sound of that Tanto skittering along the walls behind me assured me that “Yes, this is very real. You may be killed in the next half hour or so”. My heart began pounding, I dipped into a park and used the trees as cover. I circled behind the guy, who screamed about getting some Work in the darkness while I slipped out behind him and onto a main thoroughfare. I sighed in relief, but not two minutes later, I heard that awful knife whining against a car door behind me.I started to panic, and looked around. Several restaurants were still open. One in particular seemed to invite me and I saw there were people inside, quite a few of them. I made for the huge wooden doors and stepped inside….

…Where the city’s premier breakdancers were having a meet, replete with a capable turntablist playing Classic funk and old school tracks from KRS and Rakim!

I took a seat in back of the circling dancers and watched the doors for a while before relaxing enough to realize I had stepped out of hell and into my own brand of heaven. I was still having trouble processing the weight of it all, so I just let everything pass me by and focused my attention on the Here and Now. A good choice to make, in retrospect.

There was a fair amount of floor work and power moves being employed by breakers far above my level (intimidating), but a fair amount of the dancers were 100% footwork — Toprock, my strong suit. I gradually edged closer to the circle and let my guard down. I looked at my feet — If I’d known I was going to be chased through empty streets by a crackhead and wander into a breakdancing meet up I would probably have worn the Jordans or the Kobes instead of the combat boots.

It took a few runs through to get the hang of something I hadn’t done alongside other dancers in a year or two. I hit my stride soon enough, tho — even managing to discover several new bits of footwork! I honestly had one of the best times I’ve had in years, and when I left with the other dancers, sweaty and exalted, they all asked me to come back next week — several even complimented my footwork.

I made the walk home feeling ten feet tall. At the corner of my block I was offered some ‘Work’ by a street dealer whose sheer persistence amazed me. When I finally broke away and walked into the lobby of my building, I asked the doorman: “Work is like the local slang for crack, right?” I wasn’t 100% on this yet, to be honest.

“Yep. Work is Crack.” He eyed me with a touch of speculation.

I asked him, “Why is it that everyone I meet on the street around here wants to either kill me or sell me crack?”

He broke into fits of laughter that I could still hear as I got on the elevator. When I got to my apartment, I realized I had sweat out enough water to necessitate a change of clothes. With pajamas on, I chose my basic outfit for the coming week’s meetup — Reasonably roomy, zippered white linen cargos and a fresh new pair of white/grey Nike High tops, both of which look like they belong on the ISS or somewhere else in high earth orbit.

Only seven days, but I can hardly wait.