futurebird's Diaryland Diary
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running numbers
Will the numbers man �want this back?�
The city is covered in a layer of haze. People drift down the streets headed in no particular direction. Even the cars move slowly, as if the dirty air has weighed them down. We are being smothered by the lingering smoke of barbecues and the dust kicked up by rag-tag children who race radio cars in the bald brown grass lots in central park. The fourth of July weekend is a dismal time to linger in New York when you are an outsider.
It sounds like an exaggeration to call myself an outsider. I speak the language, walk the walk and know instantly which way is uptown and which way is downtown when I emerge from the caverns of the subway. I can buy lunch for lass than three dollars in midtown and I can get from times square to grand central in less than 2 minutes. But, the city-people know secrets that run so deep that some of the rules and tricks will always lie just beyond my comprehension.
I learn something new every day. Last night, bored with the same old arguments over the nation of Islam, religion, Ralph Nader and �a woman�s place in the home� at the Sugar Shack I drifted on a wave of lukewarm air down striver�s row past the enviable homes of chiropractors and dentists, past the Abethsenian Baptist church, where, already, vendors were arguing over who would get the lucrative corner spot on Sunday morning past the mysterious 24 hour barber shop where they never seem to cut any hair and over to Malcolm X Blvd. where the public library sat ominous and silent and the ambulances circled Harlem Hospital with their lights flashing lamely and their sirens off.
There I bumped into a fellow whose name I�ll omit on account of his profession. He was in his thirties and trying to chat me up since I was young and out in the night without any apparent purpose. (or any real purpose, but I tried not to let on about that) I was saying how I was �very busy� till he mentioned that he was also a playwright. So, I decided to take a clue and listen up.
He was the kind of guy who �is also....� nearly anything you could name. He seemed to know about everything but do nothing. As we were talking about the upcoming play festivals in town people would come up to him and buy one of the random items he had in his shoe box. Everyone knew his name. Not one person passed him who did not stop and say hello and take a look in the shoe box. In the box were things like chap plastic bracelets and clothes. When people wanted one of them he would argue with them over the �price� While I stood there he sold any number of random items: a shoe, a copy of �Kenny G�s greatest hits�, a WWF tee-shirt, some plastic earrings. All for the same price $1. People did not seem to much care what they bought. But they were very concerned about the receipt. First he�d hand them a 3x5 card. They�d write something on it, then he�d sign it and write something on another 3X5 card and sign it again. They kept the one he signed and he put the other in the shoe box.
A lot of the people would conclude the conversation with �I know you�re gonna want this back!" and they�d brandish whatever it was they�d bought.
I can be a bit slow on the up-take at times but it dawned on me after this happened for the fifth time that he was running some numbers. When the number was picked he�d �complain� that he really wanted his WWF tee shirt or Kenny G tape, or what ever the winning item for the number was �back� then he�d buy it back for the price of the jackpot.
On my way home I kept cracking up because it seemed like way too much trouble to go through just to run an illegal lottery. I�ve talked to the cops on occasion and they know that the numbers get run out of that deli, they just don�t care very much. They have bigger fish to fry I guess.
So, I bought myself a strange little rhinestone bracelet with a broken latch. I don�t gamble, I just want to have something that was a part of the old numbers racket. If I win, I die of laughter. (Trust me.)
Right now the essential thing is to get back to work... clean out my email box can you say 400 emails? My fingers hurt. Sings: �Oh lord won�t you buy me some DSL, my connection is slow and ain�t working� well, Oh lord won�t you buy me some DSL...�
numbers.html - 2000-07-06
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