Shriveling in the Sixth Borough.

We were on the roof of the junior high school, supposedly to bust some holes with the hammer drill. It was a good gig for a pleasant May morning. We felt momentarily free up there like in that scene from that famous prison movie. My partner had to ruin the mood by breaking the rare silence with one of his typically asinine remarks. I use the term 'partner' loosely; he's more of an opponent than anything else. I've never seen a grown man make so many stupid mistakes, forget such simple directions, talk so incessantly about absolutely nothing to the point where duct tape seems like a reasonable means to an end. I often think he does these things on purpose to test the limits of my patience. Then I stop and realize that he's not half as clever.

"What's that building over there with the dome on it?"

Being the local boy means the questions are aimed my way. Sometimes I'd give up the five-minute commute to change that.

"That's one of those places that would've given you one of those fancy pieces of paper if you hadn't dropped out."

"A high school, I get it!"

Part of me was happy-- not because he got it, but because I wouldn't have to explain it any further. That was a place I'd rather not discuss. Changing the subject before he could interject with another random outburst seemed like a good idea. Is there a lesser form of Turrets?

"It's almost easy to forget we're in the ghetto when most of our view from up here consists of trees."

I was referring to the hill behind the high school. There used to be tales of kids skipping class and hiding out up there for hours on end. A keg was rumored to be buried somewhere with only the tap exposed. All of that was before my time, though-- the time of scanning ID cards with bar codes, passing through metal detectors, armed police officers walking the halls. And I'm supposed to want to bring children into this world?

"Yeah. Your town is scary."

That sounded funny. Until then I hadn't thought of it as 'my town', though it was indeed frightening at times. Almost as frightening as the awful racket that accosted our ears out of the clear blue. It appeared to be a butchered rendition of the hook from a hip-hop song that was popular two years ago. Yes, it was just as painful as it sounds.

"Oh, great. The marching band is serenading us."

We walked towards the edge of the roof to get a better look at the source of the cacophony coming from the parking lot. Our eyes scanned the sloppy mass of teenagers in search of the easiest target. My opponent scored before me.

"Man, why do they always strap the bass drum to the smallest, goofiest kid?"

I hated to admit it, but he was right. I told him so. Both halves of the sentence. I felt part of me die.

A blindingly bald man in his early forties stood in front of that clump of misapplied hormones with a bullhorn in his hand. He pleaded with them to pay attention. It's hard to watch a losing battle, even from a safe and hidden vantage point like a roof.

"Come on, guys! March! No, don't actually move forward! Just lift your heels! No, don't waddle like penguins! And straighten up! There are supposed to be four columns! You were supposed to learn how to line up in Kindergarten..."

My opponent lit a forbidden cigarette despite the school's policy. It was due more to a lack of brains than a presence of bravado. We were our own bosses up here to an extent, but being caught smoking on school grounds would get us instantly thrown off the job.

"At least taking orders like this will be good training for when they're all in prison," I said as I stepped aside to move upwind from the smoke. My opponent laughed and choked on his nicotine fix.

What I'd just said echoed through my skull like a resonating gunshot. It was sad to admit that I believed it. Perhaps it was best that I wound up on the roof of this building instead of underneath it with an attitude like mine; or maybe my cynical stance had developed as a result of my own experiences and environment. Regardless, it made me feel like someone I hadn't been seven years ago. There's just as much comfort in defeat as there is in acceptance if you look hard enough.

One person can't change the world.
It takes a village to raise a child.
And one lousy city has managed to ruin a lot of them, present company included.

Pack it in, kids. The band's budget's been cut.

"You got an extra one?" I asked while fumbling through my pocket for the lighter that I always carry.

"For you? Anything, partner!"

Seven years ago, when I was immortal, he would've been right.