2nd Avenue between 12th and 32nd

After twenty blocks to buy five pieces of pie at five dollars apiece, and a dozen cookies at twenty dollars apiece, I decided to treat myself to a cereal milk soft serve ice cream. I politely inquired if there was a different spoon than the wooden baby spoon they had provided me for my taste test, and they declined no.

My hatred for wooden utensils has been less of a struggle lately. The mere idea of licking a Popsicle to the bitter stick end has always repulsed me. My teeth start to hurt; my brain shakes at the idea of my teeth biting into the wooden apparatus, and my mouth normally clenches to a harsh close, ending the love of any savory treat on a stick before it’s complete finish.

This time however, I engulfed the small treat, and even licked the wooden spoon when I was done. Walking the twenty blocks back to the house, I noticed an inordinate amount of children sashaying through the streets. I witnessed two young men walking together, leather jackets, gold chains, huge sunglasses, and baggy pants, one friend screaming into his phone, “Fuck you bitch! You can fuck whatever motherfucker you want! Fuck you slut!” as the children ran past him, oblivious to his rant, and into the neighboring park.

As I passed the Korean/Vietnamese restaurant that my friend and I frequent for their noodle bowls and spring rolls, I noticed a group of about fifteen middle school girls in a circle. It was a she said/she said fight with one group’s friends on one side, and the other girl’s friends forming the rest of the circumference. “You know what you did, you bitch!” one cried. “Oh no she did not just go there?” turning to her friend, standing at the forty-five degree angle, “Did that bitch just say what I think she said?”

Suddenly, the latter girl ran from outside her spot, to a girl approaching, “I am about to hit a bitch. Should I just fight her?”

I wanted to turn around and tell her no. I wanted to tell her that it’s just middle school, and to just walk away. That they would probably make up and be friends in a few weeks, sitting together at lunch, sharing a bag of chips, and hating on some new girl that crossed their web. I wanted to tell her sticking up for yourself does not include fighting in front of this beautiful Korean restaurant, and that the whole herd of them, screaming, cussing, and circling each other, were only making things bad for this poor man’s business. I wanted to tell her, I probably did this too, and that I most likely deem it a mistake now, and I probably look back on any girl I have ever had a confrontation with with actual respect. I wanted to tell her this is the fucking joy of being young, being a brat on the side of the road for no reason, and just shooting your mouth off as loud as you can.

But instead I smiled and kept walking. I knew they wouldn’t fight. They just wanted to talk shit to each other outside of a Korean bistro. Plus that group easily could have turned on me for advising, then circling me, and ultimately making me their much older sacrificial victim.

I was not about to get beat up by a pack of fourteen year old girls. I was sweating in sixty-degree weather, wearing a sweater and a winter coat, and the cereal milk soft serve ice cream was starting to turn in my stomach.