Setting out, Lispenard

The crews set out from Lispenard, fanning out to a dozen points around the city. As we walked, I sized up my crew. they were not All Stars. I had a man in his fifties, who had been around for a month or so longer than I had, and about whom I had overheard the directors talking about in the morning meeting (they concluded that he was ‘inconsistent’); a new AD, on his first day; a college kid with tattered cargo shorts on; a fifty-something woman who somehow resembled a poodle with red-dyed hair.
It’s not until the minute we turned the corner that the blue of our shirts, the tacky glossy DNC logo and the angle at which everyone held their clipboards caught my attention. We were suddenly in the thick of Chinatown – surrounded by tchotchkes and cheap handbag knockoffs and the unceasing hordes of people who come to New York City for that kind of thing. The most obscene mob in the city. Our DNC shirts are bright blue and made us stick out like a waddling line of ducks as we walked through the stinking, jammed market. We moved as a unit, weaving through the crowd.

By the time we were on the subway, I had said at least a few words to each crew member. The group started reading over their raps and my older guy started talking loudly about how much money he made yesterday, how much money he’ll make today (“I did $250 yesterday, it was ok, but I’m doing five today.” “Alright!” the college kid nodded him on, irony free.) The awkwardness of a moment before already began to fade; our shirts were badges and my clipboard felt like a hammer. I lock eyes with almost every person on the subway as each crew member calls aloud their projected goal for the day: That’s right. We’re doing this. What can you say for yourself?