Look… I ain’t even ask for much.
Lemme tell you exactly how the city tried to test me.
It’s Friday. I got no job. I got no plans. I was tryna keep it chill, maybe rotate between my couch and the fridge like a good citizen of heatwave NYC. That’s it. That was the whole agenda.
But nah. The universe had other ideas.
TV in the background yellin’ like it pays rent:
“Breaking news: NYC hits 100 degrees for the first time in 12 years.”
One hundred degrees. In June. In New York City.
You ever been inside a microwave with subway grease in the air? That’s what it felt like. The kind of heat that make your kneecaps sweat. The kind that humble you.
I’m standin’ in front of my fridge, tryna manifest hydration with my mind. You ever open a fridge hopin’ somethin’ magically appeared since the last time you checked five minutes ago? That was me. Just starin’, like I was expectin’ Beyoncé to pop out holdin’ a cold bottle of Poland Spring.
What’s inside?
- Half a lemon
- A sauce packet I don’t remember ordering
- An empty Brita pitcher
- One almond
- Regret
That’s it. No juice. No ice. Not even a sad leftover slice of pizza to hold me down. Even the baking soda looked tired.
So now I’m mad, sweaty, and slightly offended.
I throw on some beat-up slides, the ones with the sole tryin’ to retire, basketball shorts that seen better summers, and a white tee with one sleeve hangin’ lower than my patience.
All I wanted… was a cold Arizona iced tea.
Maybe a chopped cheese if destiny was feelin’ generous. But mainly? That Arizona. Tall. Cold. With the condensation runnin’ down the side like it’s in a commercial.
Simple, right?
Wrong.
This city don’t do simple.
It’s about to turn my five-minute corner store run into a side quest with mini-bosses and emotional trauma.
The Corner Store Mission That Broke the Timeline
So boom...
I'm already sweating like I just lied in church, and I ain’t even left the building yet.
Soon as I open my front door, the air hits me like a hot slap.
Like the sidewalk just whispered: “You sure about this, champ?”
I press on. One mission. One cold Arizona. Maybe two if I’m feelin’ bold.
Now let me paint the scene for you. The bodega is lookin’ like a soap opera set with snacks.
I step in and instantly regret everything.
First thing I hear?
“That quarter lucky, I don’t care what that machine say!”
It’s two old heads goin’ full Supreme Court over a broken lotto machine. One of them slammin’ change on the counter like he just cast a spell. The other’s got a bag of Wise chips in one hand and crushed dreams in the other.
I try to slide past and hit the fridge aisle, but of course… it’s blocked.
There’s a line for sandwiches. But not just any line, a spiritual test.
First up is a dude who takes five full minutes to describe his sandwich.
“Lemme get turkey… no, not that turkey, the other one. No, no, the one from yesterday. I want the vibes to be aged.”
I blink.
Behind him?
A woman holdin’ up the line because she REFUSES to pay until she tastes the mayo to make sure it’s “the real Hellmann’s, not the bootleg fake creamy one.”
Shorty really said:
“I can taste the difference. The bootleg got trauma in it.”
Meanwhile, the AC inside is just for decoration. It’s blowin’ hot air like it just left therapy.
I finally snake my way to the fridge.
And guess what?
No Arizona.
Just that weird green tea with ginseng that tastes like grass clippings and decisions you regret.
At this point, my soul is wilting. I’m thiiis close to buying a Yoohoo and convincing myself it counts as hydration.
Then, boom. Some mystery sauce flies across the aisle and lands on me.
I don’t even know where it came from. One minute I was mindin’ my business, the next I’m standin’ there lookin’ like a barbecue ghost.
My white tee is now off-white with attitude.
I look up.
Nobody sayin’ sorry. Just folks arguin’ over whether pickles should be “sexy” or “sour.”
I check my phone. It’s 11:02am. I’ve been in this store for 27 minutes. I ain’t sipped nothin’. I ain’t chewed nothin’. My shirt got sauced, my dignity’s melting, and my slides are cryin’ for backup.
This was supposed to be a five-minute trip.
Now I’m three arguments deep, smellin’ like sandwich water, and spiritually exhausted.
And I still ain’t got the Arizona.
One Thing Led to Another… and Another… and Another…
So I finally escape the bodega. No drink. No dignity. Mystery sauce slowly seeping into the fibers of my tee like disappointment.
I’m walking back down the block, head low, trying not to make eye contact with nobody. And that’s when it begins.
Outta nowhere. SPLAT.
Water balloon. Right to the back of the neck.
Cold. Disrespectful. Accurate.
I spin around like I’m about to file charges. And there’s this little kid standing on a stoop with a grin that says, "You wasn’t moving fast enough, old man."
I’m like,
"Seriously, lil’ man?"
And he hits me with the shrug of a child who has never paid a bill in his life.
I keep moving, counting backwards from ten like I’m on a yoga mat instead of a Harlem sidewalk. I’m trying to find the lesson in the moment. Be mature. Choose peace.
Then I hear that iconic summertime click.
PSSSHHHHTT…
The hydrant opens.
Not a soft little sprinkle either. This one’s a full-pressure fire hose party.
I get drenched.
Like "wardrobe change required" soaked.
My slides? Now aquatic vehicles.
My socks? Running for higher ground.
I turn the corner, looking like a busted air mattress, and that’s when the universe hits me with the third jab.
This couple across the street is in a full-blown lovers’ quarrel. High volume. Zero context. I’m minding my wet business when suddenly, the woman points at me and yells:
"THAT’S HIM, THAT’S JAYVON!"
Her man:
"Say less."
I’m standing there like,
"Wait, who is Jayvon? Why does he sound like he owes you money?"
Before I can explain that I’m literally just a soggy pedestrian trying to survive, they start stepping in my direction like I’m part of the episode.
I do the only logical thing. I hit the crosswalk like I got somewhere to be. Quick shuffle. Zero eye contact. Spiritual duck-and-roll.
And then it happens.
Because apparently the universe was in a petty, cinematic mood, a TikTok dancer spins directly into me mid-video.
Full twirl. Boom. Collision.
He stumbles back and hits me with the worst insult known to man:
"Yo, watch where you goin’, old head!"
Now pause.
I’m thirty-three.
I still got all my own teeth. I do yoga sometimes. I drink water, when it’s not one hundred degrees and I’m out here suffering.
So now I’m soaked, disrespected, accused of being Jayvon, and age-shamed by a teenager in mesh shorts.
That was it.
That was the last straw.
I get to my front door.
I’m holding one lonely Yoohoo and a sandwich that smells like betrayal.
I open the door, and then.
The Yoohoo slips. Falls. Explodes.
It looked like a chocolate milk crime scene.
I just stood there.
Soaked. Tired. Spiritually abandoned.
Tee clingin’. Soul cracked. Faith on pause.
Sometimes, Healing Starts with a Ziplock and a Reminder
I didn’t even bother cleaning up the Yoohoo. I stepped over it like an ex text.
Shoes off. Shirt clingin’ like unpaid rent. Socks hit the floor with a wet plop that matched my soul.
I walk into the living room, body still humming from the chaos, and I sit down in front of the fan like it owes me an apology. Legs wide, posture broken. You ever been so tired your bones feel hot? That was me.
Then I remembered. Top drawer, right side. Next to the rolling tray and half a charger. My sanctuary stash.
I pull it open. And there it is.
A little Ziploc bag with a sticky note on it:
“In case of mental emergency — Green Gold Gummies.”
I smiled. Not cause it was new. Nah. This was tradition.
These Green Gold joints?
They been my peace treaty for months.
Through loud neighbors, train delays, rent stress, awkward family functions. I’ve leaned on them more than I care to admit. Mixed Berry, specifically. That’s the flavor that speaks fluent "calm the hell down."
So I grab one. Pop it in my mouth. Chew slow like I’m letting the day dissolve with it.
It’s wild how something so small could feel like hitting pause in a city that never learned the meaning.
Ten minutes go by.
First, my jaw lets go.
Then my shoulders remember they ain’t gotta live in my ears.
Breath comes back like it just realized I’m alive.
Everything softens.
Not high. Not faded. Just realigned.
Like someone took the volume knob in my head and gave it a loving twist to the left.
I ain’t mad at the kid no more.
Jayvon’s still out there somewhere, but he ain’t my problem.
Even the sandwich betrayal? Forgiven. We might reconnect later.
That gummy didn’t save the day.
It reminded me I could still save myself.
In a city where peace is usually behind a paywall or a prescription, this little gummy stayed ten toes down. Same way it always does.
Same Chaos. New Energy.
Later that evening, after the heat dropped from disrespectful to just mildly aggressive, my cousin texted me:
"Yo. We grillin'. Pull up. You need it."
I thought about sayin’ no. But then I looked at my reflection in the microwave… still shirtless, still slightly sauced from earlier, lookin’ like a man who’s been through the side quests of life. I needed it.
Backyard cookout in full swing.
You know the vibe.
Auntie on the spades table, talkin’ reckless like she invented trash talk.
Uncle walkin’ around with a towel on his neck like he in a halftime interview.
Cousins sippin’ out of Capri Suns like they grown but still nostalgic.
A Bluetooth speaker sittin’ on a lawn chair playin the perfect mix — Nas, Erykah Badu, a little SZA, and one random Luther Vandross deep cut that made everybody pause and go, “Ayyyee...”
I grab a plate. Collard greens. Jerk chicken with just the right amount of menace. Potato salad that passed the color test.
And me? I was good.
Same day. Same heat. Same loud aunties and generational side-eyes.
But the energy? Different.
That Green Gold gummy earlier didn’t erase the chaos. It just reminded me not to carry it all.
I laughed with the same kid who hit me with the water balloon earlier. He threw me a Capri Sun and said, “Truce?”
I nodded. We was good.
Because in that moment, everything felt balanced.
A little wild. A little loud. A little sticky.
But grounded. Present. Alive.
You can’t always control the chaos. Especially in New York.
Sometimes, the heat hits 100 before you even leave your building.
Sometimes, the corner store turns into a spiritual obstacle course.
Sometimes, you end up accused of bein’ Jayvon by strangers with unresolved drama.
Life’s wild like that.
But here’s the thing.
You still get to choose how you respond.
You still get to pause.
You still get to heal.
Whether that means takin’ a breath in front of a fan, steppin’ away from the noise, or reaching for that one thing that reminds your nervous system it’s safe — make healing part of your day.
For me, that’s a Green Gold gummy.
Not cause it’s trendy. Not cause it’s a shortcut.
But because it meets me where I am and reminds me I don’t have to carry it all.
So if today’s got you feelin’ like everything’s one straw away from snapping, I got one word for you:
Reset.
Put it in your pocket. In your routine. In your drawer next to the rolling tray and the loose batteries.
Because even when the block is on fire… peace is still possible.
