“Hey! Stop! That kid stole my IPod!”

Jim barrels down East 72nd street. A half a block ahead of him, a Latino kid in a black hoodie elegantly weaves through suburban transplanted quarter-lifers and Carribbean nannies pushing thousand dollar strollers. Yet to innocent bystanders, Jim is the one that looks like a crazy person. U2 plays silently through the headphones that are gliding behind the hoodlum like tails on a kite. Little does he know that Jim was a track star in high school. A sprinter in fact.

Studder steps and sideways shuffling lead the kid down Lexington as nine to five workers wait for the downtown bus. Jim’s long jump wasn’t bad either as the two now are sprawled out on the sidewalk. The kid goes right for Jim’s neck.

“Give me my IPod, asshole.” Jim forces his grip as he feels the kid relinquishing power. Jim gets to his knees just in time to see the kid weave through traffic to cross the street.

With his collar open and a button missing, Jim gets to he’s feet and slides the headphones back into his ear just in time to hear U2’s “Beautiful Day.”

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