My turtle ran away

This afternoon Grayson and I walked through Prospect Park and he stopped me to point out, what he likes to call, the 'Steve Jobs House.' I stopped pushing the handle of my blue grandma-cart and angled my right hand around the metal bedframe piece jutting from it so the frame wouldn't fall and hit the wheel. My other hand still groped a 99c Arizona Peach Iced Tea. The house was similar to the others surrounding it, in idea really. Like the simple, 3 story brick town houses, this Steve Jobs House looked like it housed 4 or 5 apartments. But it was shockingly white, obviously new, and instead of old-rusted metal bars on its windows, an elaborate dual staircase flanked the front of the building. Both right and left the stairs criss-crossed in sharp, geometric lines, being cut off at each floor with a wide, consuming deck. The whole place had a MC Escher-esque design. It stood out like a pearl on the pavement of glass pieces and asphalt. I licked the top of the can, trying to pry the straw out of it's silver mouth, without moving my eyes from the bright, shiny object. Who had the audacity to build this place?

I moved forward, pushing the cart ahead of me. Because I was still mesmerized by this building, I accidently ran into the full-sized box spring Grayson had balanced on his skateboard.

"I don't get it," I said. "It's such an asshole move to build such a nice building in a community where people pass by it everyday and know they could never afford it. And it seems like such a tight-knit community here too."

"Well why don't you just become an anti-gentrification journalist then, Patty?" Grayson responded with a wide-smile.

We pressed on through the neighborhood and to our building on Putnam and Grand, the edge of Fort Greene. I forged ahead with the idea to unlock the door for Grayson. As I was within, say, 6 yards of the door, two young black girls approached me, probably about 15 years old. I glanced at them and then quickly back in front of me, in typical NY fashion. As we passed, I suddenly felt something slap against my shoulder. I looked at the ground and saw what appeared to be a bitten-off end of a vienna sausage. I looked at the girls, confused, expecting to hear either a "Sorry!" or "Fuck you dumb bitch!" Instead I received only the look of their backs as they kept walking. Did they mean to hit me? If they did, why the cold, awkwardness about it? The little Cuban woman in me wanted to yell, "Puta!" but luckily logic kicked in. I didn't want to start any trouble.

As Grayson arrived, and asked what was wrong, I explained the bizarre situation I just had.

"Yeah, you know I hear that most of the muggings going on now are from young girls," he said as we maneuvered the bed through our door. "So if it makes you feel any better, they probably weren't throwing the hotdog at you, personally.."

I sighed, continued inside the door, and set down the cart with the bedframe and wall shelves we bought off craigslist. I couldn't get those nonchalant, cold-meat-throwing girls out of my mind.

"Patty, where is the turtle?"

My eyes snapped to the left at the plastic container filled with water and disolved turtle food. No turtle. Great, now my turtle ran away.