2011 06 07: Racial Profiling

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Mission Name: Racial Profiling
Date of Mission: June 7, 2011
Locale: The Hood

It's kind of like the finals in the World Series of Poker: Five Race Card Draw.

Jack Lip

Bedford Stuyvesant. It could be Harlem, but the proximity of Park Slope makes that impossible. In a predominantly African-American neighborhood, a white kid in a faded gray hoodie and beat-up jeans will naturally stand out in the crowd, and one can only wonder just how long he's been here without being harassed. But, nope! If the expression on his face is any indication that he's been heckled earlier, it sure isn't there. In fact, everyone in the 'hood just leaves him alone. Maybe he's a regular, or maybe his best buddy is just down the street. No one really knows, but he's still there, sitting outside on top a crumbling concrete stairway that leads to a halfway house.

"Damn, Mama! I'll be right back! My Wigga is outside!"



The door slams as Lip comes stepping out of a house a couple houses down from the halfway house and the loudmouth black man is already brushing his shoulders off and idly tossing familiar head nods at dudes that he knows, as he wanders down the street towards the hoodied white boy. His steps are only staggered by a couple of fine black girls with shorty-shorts on. "Ladies, ladies, ladies. God DAYUM, ya'll fine…" Oh distractions.

Well, they certainly told him that the 'courier' was gonna be a live one, but this dude was entirely other. If Lip is good at reading people, he'll be able to read that in Jack's pretty baby blues. "Soooo," the youth begins, rising from the staircase as the man close to all the 'fine ladies' starts towards him, "You're Lip?" Punctuating that question with two deliberate blinks, the youth crosses one arm over his left and pulls out a tiny manila envelope from his front pocket. "Someone told me I'd find you here. I'd like you to deliver somethin' for me, brah." The guy can't be more than seventeen or so, maybe a highschool kid.

"Hol' up, man! Hol' up! Can't you see I'm busy? Damn! Wiggas is crazy these days." Lip is holding up a finger to Jack at the moment, while he's got his iPhone out and he's taking pictures of the two phat asses of the girls walking away from him. "Thank God for Sir Mix-A-Lot, cuz these babies got back! Ya'll better call me! I ain't playin' wit' ya'll!" A dismissive wave of his hand and Lip is finally spinning all the way around to look at Jack.

"Aight, aight. What you got?" His mind catches up to Jack's words and he's already reaching for the manila envelope. "Yeah, I got you. Dependin' on where I'm takin' this shit, you may or may not be gettin' the This White Boy Crazy As Hell For Comin' To Bedstuy Like This Discount." Lip flashes a big smile as he shoves his iPhone back into the holster on his hip. Right next to about three other cell phones. What the hell?

Yeah, what the hell. Any sane white kid would beat it, but there's just something entirely too cocky about the way he's handling this situation. As if he's planned it, studied it, spent weeks on it before setting up a perfect appointment. "Money talks, right?" He twirls the minuscule envelope between his fingers, "Don't worry. Where you're going, there are no such things as discounts." Jack presents the envelope to Lip as he reaches for it. "I need you to drop this off at an apartment in Park Avenue. I'm paying you half now, you'll get the rest when you deliver it to a Mr. Tate." The boy whips out a Blackberry, and adds, "Normally I wouldn't ask, but — do I have permission to pay you by direct deposit? I never bring cash."

The envelope is snatched up and pocketed somewhere in the baggy clothes that Lip's wearing, before he raises an eyebrow. "Man, Paypal only. I don't be trustin' ya'll crazy ass white boys. I seen Rounders. Bourne Identity. Percy Jackson. Ya'll some crazy asses." Lip's already grabbing at another phone on his hip and pulling up his account information for paypal transfers and what not. The phone is then handed off to the white dude so money transferring can happen. "Park Ave. Mr. Tate? That's a wack ass name, by the way. Ugh." Lip's making some mental notes about all this. "How priority is this? We talkin' G-14 Classified or can I get my chill on and run on Colored People Time? Cuz I gotta' go pick up some milk. Mama tryin' make some cornbread. Her ass can't even cook…"

"Whatever, man," Jack shrugs. "So long as you get this to him by the end of the day, we should be fine." Besides, it's not as if his own money is involved, but Jack doesn't disclose any of that. As he grasps Lip's iPhone to read the information on it, the young hacker proceeds to enter an account number onto his, expertly hitting those small keys on his Blackberry to transfer the funds. He also does something to Lip's phone, pushing a few things on the screen here and there. "K, done." He's a fast typer. "The address is on google maps," Jack tosses the iPhone back to him, and shoves his own BB back into his jacket pocket.

"Aight, bet." Lip takes his phones back and stutters for a moment to make sure everything is going in the right holster. He carries too much stuff around. "I'll get right on this. Right after I hook Moms up with the milk. I'ma' need to head down to the rich hood anyway and find me somethin' to eat. How the hell you gonna' be a black mom and can't even make Soul Food? She be trippin', man." Lip is already whirling around his heels and heading off in the direction of the corner store… down on the corner. "Alllllll the playas caaaaaaaame… from far and wiiiiiiiiide! Wearin' afros and braaaaaaiiiiiiiiids…. kickin' them gangsta riiiiiiiiiiides!"

Yes, he's singing himself to the corner store. Couriers do that.

"Um, right. See you later dude." Jack's eyebrow shoots up, and he just stares after Lip as he sings to himself like some crazy-ass baller. Or just some crazy-ass. The teen doesn't dwell on it much, but before he leaves, he does reach for his Blackberry again, dialing up a number. "Uh, yeah. Surrey Limousine? This is Mr. Landers's associate. Could you please send a town car to pick me up at this address in Brooklyn? Yup, I'll email it to you. Oh, and charge his account please — I'll email that to you too. Thanks." Smiling like a Cheshire cat, Jack waves at Lip, looking a little too innocent for his own good.

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