I hate riding the NYC subway. Not because I think it’s a dirty, crime infested mess (it’s not). I mainly hate it because you never know who you’re going to see. Sure, there may be the occasional homeless person funking up the train. But I’m not talking about that guy – he doesn’t bother me. It’s the person from my past that I dread seeing. The person that recognizes you from high school 11 years ago. The person who was a client at the mental health clinic you worked at. The person who’s name you can’t and don’t want to remember. Most of all I dread seeing the old homie from back in the day that you lost contact with.

While some of my people from HS became lawyers and other types of successful professionals, others became not much at all. Of course I’m not looking down on those that are still trying to find their calling while working at Starbucks. That’s OK. Heck, I think I’m a writer trapped in an administrator’s body, but I gladly do both. I’m as lost as anyone else. I’m referring to the guys who are still on the block hustling. The guys who never grew up and moved on. And by “moved on” I don’t mean leaving the ‘hood. I mean deciding that legitimate business pursuits are best for your long term interests. (You can stay in where you are and still be successful.)

But I digress.

Earlier this week on the subway I ran into, no, ran away from an old associate of mine from high school. I saw him and said “Oh sh*t! I hope he didn’t see me!” I averted my eyes, rumaged through my man bag, and found found a magazine (Black Enterprise with Obama on the cover). I became really focused on the article, praying that I wasn’t noticed. He got off a few stops later and I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t seen him since he was kicked out of school 13 years ago. We were cool then, but I’m a non-prof