“So this is Harlem,” he said.

“Harlem,” I said. “We won’t see much of anything except this station.”

“Have you ever seen so many blacks?”

“Of course, Metro. You forget where I come from.”

“Yes, sometimes I forget.”

“You never get out of the Village. Except to work in midtown.”

“Is it dangerous? I mean, here?”

“No more than any other part of the city.”

“It reminds me of Baton Rouge on a Saturday night. New Orleans, too, but rougher.”

“You’re exaggerating, Metro. Come on, let’s get to the other side for the downtown train.”

“Wait a minute. Let’s explore a little.”

“Some other time.”

“What are you so apprehensive about? What do you have to be afraid of?”

“I’m thinking about you, that’s all.”

“I’m all right. I can take care of myself. Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Well, let’s get out of the station and walk the streets or something.”

“Some other time. I’m not ready. Besides, I have things to do downtown.”

“You always have things to do.”

Then we heard the train and saw its lights bearing into the station. We ran up the stairs, across the passageway above, and down the other side. I held the door open. Metro got in reluctantly. He didn’t say anything.

“We’ll stay longer next time,” I said.

“You mean when we make another mistake?”

“I really mean it, Metro. I’m in a hurry this time.”

“I’ll go on my own,” he said, looking from the window and into the glare of stations passing by. “Besides, I need to know more about the city. For my job.” Then he was quiet for the rest of the rattling ride downtown. The silence between us made the trip seem longer than it was. We got out of the train at Columbus Circle.

“I don’t see what you’re so ashamed of,” Metro said. “You didn’t grow up there.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “But someplace just as bad.”

“Bad? What’s so bad about it?”

“Look, don’t try to tell me how to be black.” I said nothing more.