"Cy", I often say, you are a compendium of useless facts". The things that occupied his time such as who died recently, who's brother left their job, or who's sister was divorced,  occasionally led him to reflect on an event that lent insight to the injustices of the world in a poignant and compassionate way. 

The lintel repair as with all other proper repairs began with surface preparation. I probed the loose surface with a margin trowel, then used a small pointed clay tool, the kind found in art classes, to pick away at the particles of loose stone. I discovered the subtle pattern of an intruding species caught in the colored block and flecks of mica that shimmered like diamonds. I was lost in the heat of the summer day, as my mind relinquished the repetitive task to my knowing hands. Below, I could the beads of sweat suspended on Cy's naked skull.

       Midday offered a welcome respite from the earlier activity, so after securing the boom on the truck I walked over to the corner store for a cold drink and food to nibble on.  At the front door I was met by " Freddie" a longtime neighborhood resident and "concierge" in a former life who with his "opened hand" controlled passage through the front door. Tall and "thin as a rail" he stood out in front of the store all day foraging for coins. The new husband and wife team from India who owned the store reluctantly approved of his front door extortion ploy. 

I watched him "work the street" with an endearing smile and nod of his head as he opened the door for each patron who entered, then jerked away indignantly when he found that a mere dime had been placed in his palm. As much as anyone, I resisted the daily harassment  from scam artists, yet I was willing to part with a "half a buck "each time I entered the store because of Freddie's enthusiastic performance. Once inside, I grabbed a cold drink and a few energy bars and moved toward the check out counter.

A small crowd was waiting in front of the register when the owner yelled out to a man who was standing off to the side chewing on a piece of candy that he pilfered from the display bin.

"Did you pay for that?" the owner screamed!

The man unruffled and unapologetic mumbled something under his breathe.

All at once, in an uncharacteristic display of anger, the owner slapped his hand down onto the stainless steel counter and yelled "you mudder vucker!" "You do this all the time, get the vuck out of here, who do you think you are?" 

Frozen by the outburst, I resolved the heightened tensions to "life in the big city", "a nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live here."

Arriving back to the job site, I took a seat half way up on the front stairway to eat my lunch and was grateful to relax my ankles that were pulsating from balancing on the work platform. Cy was nowhere to be found. A teenage boy casually strolled up to the staircase and without saying a word took a seat right beside me. A bit unnerved by his lack of introduction and intrusion upon my personal space, I stared at him, hoping that he would explain his sudden appearance. He casually gazed out into the street with his elbows resting on his knees as if this was his regular routine. I shuttled my body over half a foot to the right to regain my zone of comfort.

"What"s up?" I inquired.

He turned toward me, but said nothing, then continued his focus out toward the street.

Tired and unable to understand his visit I began nibbling at the food in my lunch bag. Still unsure of his motives and uncomfortable at the thought of eating alone, I asked  him if he wanted to eat the other energy bar.

"No", he said quietly.

Ten minutes later he got up without saying a word and left the scene.

Cy finally showed up with his lunch in hand, a pannini sandwich and a "purple".

Working for so long has allowed us access to the culture of the "street" and its vernacular. A "purple", is any carbonated beverage that has the distinction of possessing the color purple, although slight variations of reds and blues will sometimes substitute. The "purples" rise as the preferred beverage in the hood is probably derived from the recreational drug mixture known as "Purple Drank", made popular by the hip hop community. The color purple symbolizes the concept of "hope amidst despair", so when Cy picks up a "purple", the less toxic variety, he affirms his street savviness and all its social implications. The grape or "purple" is a favorite drink down south and we have debated at length the merits of the post war American drink "Cool-Aid" , and the huge quantities that are consumed. Merely a thin packet of powder containing  food coloring and flavoring, all of the other 99.99% of sugar and water must be added. When Cy returns home from his family reunion in Tuscaloosa, he has cases of the stuff. Its continued use is unexplained from a health perspective because of the excessive amount  of sugar that's required for its familiar taste. The purple beverage has gained popularity and can only be understood in the context of how certain groups, as a need to express their social identity, develop and perpetuate simple products and  symbols. The purple has developed into the preferred beverage in the" hood "and with a rare response Cy replied, "Blatey", "I just can't explain it." 

As we sat down to lunch Cy began another marathon performance of eating his sandwich while talking incessantly about "who knows what" ? Chewing, swallowing, drinking and talking unabated, I sat and watched in amazement at the coordination of all his bodily activities. At last, I found an opening and interrupted the one way conversation to tell Cy about the young boy who sat next to me on the stoop. Cy, with his keen insight into the criminal mind from the years he spent in law enforcement came up with an immediate explanation.

"That boy was there to deliver the "goods" to his client", Cy explained.

The "goods" included any of the usual street drugs from marijuana to heroin.

"He was using you for "cover." Look where we are! Everyone sees us. People are looking out their windows all day for anything suspicious. "He's probably been arrested here before. That boy was sitting there next to you pretending to be part of the work crew, while all along he was waiting for his buyer to show up. He was trying  to blend into the scene.'Sneaky Pete's'' call this a "pretext ."

Cy had it "right on the money!" As trivial as the event had seemed I felt that I had learned another valuable technique of the "street", that cut deep into the heart of understanding human behavior.

Thanking him for his synopsis I declared, "Cy, you are the leader of  "the B.F. Skinner for lunch, bunch:"  I got up off the stoop, a bit embarrassed for allowing the street punk to "modify my behavior",  climbed back into the work basket with a fresh mix, and headed  back to the repair area. On the street an old man in a dark suit leaning lightly on his cane was staring up at the building. I turned and gave him a slight nod then reached for my razor sharp straight edge to prepare for the final carving.

Cy and I  were avid spectators to the performance in the street for at any moment characters emerged and filled our days with a document for our time. There was no other place we'd rather be than in this public setting ,feeling the intensity of the moment, working, ,breathing life back into the aging stone, halting the process of decay, realigning the grains of sand into a distinct order if only for the speck of time that we toiled, we knew that our work stood as a necessary and vital example of change for the  neighborhood, as one change begets another,  the community shared in the process, and was nurtured.