From "Life at 115th: Straight Trippin"

Shabaz, Dredge, Tre, and Trey looked suspiciously at the tape recorder, obviously unsure as to whether or not they wanted to continue. There was an awkward silence. The burr in my sock dug deeper into my heel. Shabaz finally spoke up. "Listen man, you been good to us so far, know-wah-ahm-sayin, but, truth, we think ya best turn that piece off if ya want some more flap from us, know-wah-ahm-sayin know-wah-ahm-sayin."

The rest of the boys nodded. "True dat, " they all said. A trio of "true dats." The young men each took one step towards me.

I flicked the recorder's power switch to the off position. My tried and true Panasonic RQ-2102, my all-time favorite, the one that had saved my skin and allowed me to be a lazy journalist so many times. "Not this time," I mumbled under my breath. "This time, I'll have to go it alone." Son of a bitch.

"Satisfied?" I asked while lowering the Panny to the sidewalk, caressing it with the back of my fingers and resting it gently on the curb. I straddled it between my legs, doing as much as I could to shield it from harm without making it look like I was the kind of deviant that was sexually attracted to my tape recorder, a condition that, once I began attending the meetings, I learned was far more common than anyone could or would care to imagine. Some secrets must remain as such.

Dredge scanned the rest of the crew, took in their solemn nods, and did a quick handstand. They were ready to open up. He began to speak. His speech was suddenly and remarkably lucid.

"Now, the common mark on the street will look at one of our magic tricks and automatically brand it as nothing more than sleight of hand, some clever trick that we've been able to master through years and years of practice and repetition. These type of guys see four homeless 15 year-olds and assume as much -- 'These kids have nothing better to do,' he'll say. 'It sure was a nifty trick, the way he made the ball disappear, but it's just that, a trick, and nothing more.' And that's when we know we've got the sonuvabitch right where we want him."

Again, the rest of the group nodded in unison. Another trio of synchronized "True dat"s followed. I began to slowly stroke the Panasonic with the inside of my ankle, caught myself, and continued, both aroused by the tape recorder resting a few inches below my crotch and fascinated by the story being told to me.

"I'm confused," I said. "What is the man not understanding about your trick? Why do you have him where you want him? What more is there to a silly ball trick?"

Trey smirked and let out a small chuckle. But Tre was deadly serious. He looked me straight in the eye, sizing me up, reading all that was me from the inside out until I was sure that he knew every instance of every shameful action that had taken place in my past as both a journalist and a man who has sex with recording equipment.

"The trick is," said Tre as Trey continued to laugh. "The trick is that there is no trick, muthafucka. All the brothas you see before you right now be full-blown wizards."

I froze. Of course.

"Know-wah-ahm-sayin, muthafucka? Punk-ass Harry Potter don't hold a candle to the wizardly shit that go down on 115th damn right near every muthafuckin' night. True dat."