Hold Down the Block

I’m sitting on the stoop with Mia, talking about life, about running and about the merits of having a lot of stuffed animals. Two guys walk by. OGs from the hood. Tattooed, red-eyed, rough ’round the edges. The usual hustlers. Handy with the steel if needed. Cool cats, unless you cross them. They nod at us. I nod back. One of them blinks to Mia. She tries to blink back, basically closing both eyes.
The guy cracks a smile.
Mia sneezes.

As if on cue, the dude stops. Right in front of us. He turns toward me, but he’s really talking to his compadre:
- Man, can’t walk on that block.
The other guy stops, looks back, annoyed.
- C’mon maaaan, he said.
- Can’t do it, man. Not this block.
For THAT guy to be concerned about walking our block, it must be something deadly serious. This is Brooklyn for G-sake. We have a couple of characters living on our block, including a drug dealer whom drives a custom Wrangler, a crackhead family and a retired gangsta. I’m thinking shootout, gang war, old grudge. I look up at the guy as he squats near Mia.
- Wassup? I ask.
- Nuthin’ man. I don’t like da block. Worst block in town.
Worst block in town? Damn!
- Why is that?
- Allergies, man.
Allergies? I didn’t expect that one.
Mia sneezes again. The guy shrugs his shoulders.
- See?
I nod. I think about Mia’s congested nose, Karen’s puffy eyes, Sebastian’s skin rash.
- It makes a lot of sense.
- Word! Rough block, man.
- I know. Rough block.
- Take care man.
- You too.
The guy waves to Mia, then the two of them take off. Mia doesn’t wave back. She just sneezes.
- Atchooom!
Damned allergies.

I knew our block was a bit rough, sometimes, between the dealer and the crackheads family. I just didn’t know it was THAT rough.