Right before I hit play again, one of the undergrads yelled “Water! I need water!” and another yelled “Lacy! You can’t drink that!”

Caught a glimpse of Lacy squatted like she was pissing, chugging from a 2-gallon guy on display in the vestibule there, laughing and spilling most of it, stance wide so it missed her feet.

Takin a piss.

Takin a piss in the Fresh Grocer!

Pulled my Nike Dri-Fit snapback I found in the street down low, over my balaclava, under my hood. Unlocked my bike and got to walking.

My thing lately was sticking to 41st.

Walking down 41st and only 41st, whenever possible.

Doing so was how I managed to leave my house.

My room.

My bed.

41st was my block.

Forty-one hunned.

Gang.

Fuck you, high-30s UPenn motherfuckers with your dorms and well-insulated jackets and bike cops and senses of purpose.

Eat all the dicks.

And you, mid-40s kombucha-guzzling hippies with your communal housing and fermented foods and jars and senses of purpose.

The fuck y’all know about 41st Street.

That shit ain’t even straight.

It zigged east a half block at Market, zagged west a quarter block at Walnut, and was paved for shit all along.

Ran one way one block and the other way the next.

Wasn’t respected as a thru street.

But walking it.

Kept things interesting.

Turned on Postmates and started unloading groceries, back at the spot.

The lights were out and roomie’s bike was gone, which meant he was at the wifey’s.

Probably cuddled up, spooning.

Netflix auto-playing atop their shared covers.

Just like the rest of the simps: accepting affection from others to mask the pain of themselves.

One pound russet potatoes ($2) on the counter, in the corner. One pound cooking onions ($2), next to that. Seven-grain soft white presliced loaf ($2) and Bustelo tin ($4) in the cabinet, above. And eggs ($1.50), Vermont sharp white cheddar ($1.69), and bag of clearance, overripe avos ($1) in the fridge.

Got a ding right when I least expected it.

Right when I’d forgotten I’d logged on.

When I’d settled into the couch and opened YouTube.

3:37 a.m.

Pizza spot in south.

Way south.

South of Snyder south.

The fuck.

Hit accept before fully considering the logistics.

Fuck it.

This was my life now.

Was it even open still.

Would they even be awake still by the time I got it to them.

Would my prepaid Postmates Fleet credit card even work, like it hadn’t been lately.

Were my thoughts as I huffed it—wheezed—across the Schuylkill.

Mellow but popping still somewhat, somehow, once across.

People still out tryna fuck or get home or not get home just yet.

Folks passed out on cardboard, in nooks, on Market approaching City Hall.

Could feel the Under Armour rubbing against the rash below my right pec, extending into my right pit.

Shoulda vaselined that bih.

Forgot to vaseline that bih.

Gotta remember to!

Next time.