Six seven

Somehow, Halloween got even more absurd than the 6–7 craze sweeping the nation.

“When we swap a mechanical mindset for a magical one, we shift from reacting to obstacles to relating to them.”

-Good Vibes

Northeast Minneapolis, where I live, has its own quirky ecosystem of neighborhood dive bars. A couple dozen of them are tucked right into residential streets—some wedged between single-family homes like an odd duplex or vacant lot. It’s a whole vibe.

Most of these bars are relatively chill, as far as bars go, and patronized by an older crowd heavy on beer and hockey and light on hard liquor and loud music. The bar across from me, the NE Palace, is the exact opposite—it’s perhaps the rowdiest bar in town. I didn’t know this when I moved in, and word on road is it wasn’t always like that. According to my neighbor, after another bar that catered to a younger Black crowd closed down, that energy migrated to the Palace. Along with it came traffic, loud arguments, and the bass-heavy cars that go boom and make my soul tremble. There’s no two ways about it—it’s a hood bar. And every weekend, it’s Malice at the Palace.

Malice at the Palace has led to a handful of late-night suboptimal interactions with turnt up drunk dudes young enough to be my kids and old enough to be my uncles. None felt especially dangerous—until Halloween night.

Some Palace patrons treat my driveway like a community parking lot. I don’t, but I’ve let it slide because no one has blocked me in. That night, however, my SO Jodi was coming over late, so I stepped outside to make sure her spot was open.

Right on cue, a black SUV that wasn’t hers pulled into my driveway.

“Good evening,” I said, motioning for the driver to roll down his window.

“What up?” he said, mid-phone call. He looked like a post-prime Bizzy Bone from my favorite 90s rap group, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony—only if Bizzy was on SNAP and about to get his benefits cut.

I told him I lived there, my girl was on her way, and I’d appreciate it if he moved—please and thank you.

He nodded and said he understood I lived there, but he wasn’t leaving because someone had smashed in his back window. He was waiting for somebody inside the bar and didn’t want to leave his car unattended.

I said I was sorry about his window, thanked him for at least staying with the car, and gently asked again if he’d move.

He looked me up and down, shook his head, rolled up a working window—dismissing me—and returned to his phone call. Conversation over.

I attemped to reengage and tapped on the glass on one of the non-busted windows. He glared and gave me the universal “get lost” hand slash gesture.

Jodi was minutes away. My man wasn’t moving. He wouldn’t even acknowledge me. I thought about knocking out another one of his windows to get his attention. But I also knew violence would make a bad situation worse.

I was out of options. I didn’t know what to do.

Maybe it was the (almost) full moon. Maybe it was the scandalous Halloween costumes worn by some female Palace patrons, many of whom I would describe as “scantily clad” even on non-holiday nights. Or maybe it was the primal nature of the encounter. Whatever the reason, I decided the most effective nonviolent option to get Bizzy’s attention was to climb onto the hood of his jeep and hump it for several slow, deliberate strokes.

That got his attention.

He looked up from his phone call while I was mid-thrust, froze, and gave me a look equal parts fear, rage, and incredulity. He popped out of his SUV, reaching for something under his seat.

“Get the f*** off my car! N****, what the f*** is you doin’?!”

“Demonstrating the absurdity of this situation,” I said. “How would you like it if I parked on yo slab and refused to leave?”

“I don’t give a f***.”

“Please leave, sir.”

“I ain’t leaving. Make me,” he said as he planted his feet and squared up on me.

With hindsight, I realize that he probably wanted me to swing on him so he’d have an excuse to pull the thing he was reaching for. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind that I could use my 6’7" wingspan to land a left hook and knock him into the next dimension.

It took every ounce of my spiritual training not to find out.

Instead, I did something I never thought I would do: I called 911. To be clear, I don’t engage with law enforcement if I can avoid it because in my experience, they usually make things way worse for folks who look like me.

“You callin’ 5-0?!” He could accept a middle aged man humping his hood. But a brother calling the cops? I must be out my mind.

“I’m stunned too,” I said. “Yet here we are.”

He tried to snatch my phone, but I dodged his grab with reflexes quicker than either of us expected. I started reading his license plate to the dispatcher, but Bizzy jumped in front of it before I could finish. Then I jab-stepped, spun past him like I was readying to catch a lob from my boy Jeremy back in our YMCA hoopin days, and made it to the rear of the vehicle unimpeded to read the rest.

That’s when Bizzy let out an exasperated expletive, jumped back in his car and floored it toward me as I backed away. I looked to the sky and whispered a prayer. Bizzy’s whip stopped inches from my knees, reversed hard, and sped off.

The dispatcher asked if I still needed assistance. I said no.

Afterward, as I stood alone in my driveway, chest pounding, it occurred to me that for most of human history, if someone rolled up on on you, you couldn’t just whip out a magic rectangle to summon armed strangers. You either retreated or fought to the death. I realized how dependent I am on a system I don’t even trust. If that system collapses—and I suspect it will sooner rather than later—I had to develop a better mouthpiece and mindset to cope in these turbulent times.

While Bizzy’s conduct was beyond the pale, what kept me up that night wasn’t his behavior—it was mine.

I never once tried to help that poor, unfortunate soul.

Later, it hit me that he didn’t refuse to leave my driveway out of mere defiance. Rather, he simply didn’t know where else to go. His window was smashed. He was probably half drunk. He was waiting on someone at the bar. He might be facing hard times, was having a rough night, and lacked any semblance of a plan. The young man needed help figuring out his next move, and his frustration at not being able to get himself sorted led him to act out.

And I reacted to his insousiance instead of relating to his pain.

If I’d advised Bizzy that the tobacco shop parking lot a block down from the Palace was a better location for him to regroup than my driveway, maybe things would’ve gone differently. Maybe not. But I didn’t even try to help. I was too caught up in my indignation, my ego, and my pride to see things from his perspective.

Maybe the universe put him there so an older head could show him some love and offer help. Instead, he got a brother humping his hood and calling the cops.

Someone once said that before we can receive what we want from the universe, we have to become a source of it.

The next time I want someone to help me, I’ll start by figuring out how I can help them. Even if they’re being a jerk and don’t know how to ask for help themselves. 

EDIT - My homeboy Pooh read this and said I should've just fake dialed the cops 🤦🏽‍♂️🤯