Walking toward 42nd Street last night, after my performance, thinking about my need for picture hanging materials when to my left between the curb and the traffic, I first saw the police car; following along, to the three policemen in a semi-circle around one man. He was standing with his hands behind his back, and as casual as he attempted to make it appear, which at first it did, one realizes no one stands to chat with hands behind their back. The first thing that comes to mind, well, a number of first things, but always: that was not how he planned his evening to end. The three cops were white, the man was african-american. That dynamic has an effect on the situation. The prisoner was stationed at the side of his black suv. These suv’s I see not infrequently on the weekends, and have wondered about them. At one of the bus stops I frequent on performance nights, in a ‘sketchier’ part of town, I’ve seen them pull up to the bus stop and a seemingly random man or two step out. Always in a sort of daze or haze and the driver looks at me, more with a question of ‘you interested?’ than ‘oh, you’ve seen something you shouldn’t. I have formed an opinion of what I think is being trafficked. This was one of those cars. To my right there was a drug store; I entered with the vain hope of finding hardware supplies. When I again came out, the policemen were ‘helping’ the prisoner into a van. His car left behind, the caution lights blinking. I think about the follow up to this scene. The loved ones of the incarcerated getting the call. The ‘boss’ getting the call, the car being impounded, the lives disrupted and ‘crime’ taken off the streets, but the ones for whom the ‘crime’ is being made available, most likely being not affected at all. Makes me wonder over and over what this life-experience is all about for so many ‘trying to make it work’.