By Johna Till Johnson
It’s about 8:15 PM on a Friday night. We’re finally kicking back, at the end of yet another 60-hour workweek. It’s been intense, and we’re both looking forward to the weekend.
We’ve decided that I will get groceries. Vlad will prep and cook. But we’re switching from “94” (the apartment at 94th Street and 3rd Avenue) to “92” (the apartment at 92nd Street and Madison). We are both going over, but separately— Vlad to carry over some packages, and I to get the groceries.
I head out first.
As I walk down the gentle slope of 3rd Avenue, I notice something odd: police barricades. And not just barricades, but police—every few yards, there’s a police officer, or an empty squad car.
There are more as I turn up 96th Street and begin to go up the hill.
I pass a man smoking a cigar on his front stoop, eyes bright in his weathered dark skin. “What’s this all about?”
“President Obama is in town. It’s the exit to the FDR,” he says.