I went to the gym Wednesday night. On the way back, I braved the ear-splitting noise inside Dallas BBQ to order some take-out. It was particularly bad, with a group of ghetto teens having a conversation in the take out area that, to an untrained ear, sounded like the beginnings of a fight. It was all in an effort to draw attention to themselves. Well, it worked, because they got my attention. Soon I was hoping an out of control cab would come careening through the glass where they were sitting and pulverize each and every one of them.
As I was rushing down the block toward 9th avenue, I stopped in front of Duane Reade as I remembered to buy shampoo. Finally, I remembered something at the right time.
I found my shampoo and brought it to the register. I put it down on the counter and the cashier said to me, "Da be it?"
Ghetto Translation: "Is that all, Sir?"
I stood there, shocked, until I smiled and said, "Yeah." I was on the verge of laughing in his face, but then I thought, if he talks like that, he might be packing heat.
I walked home repeating this new catch phrase in my head. Da be it? Da be it? Da be it? It's going to be my new mantra from now on. Feel free to use it as you please. I'll be doing impressions for anyone in the New York area for one dollar.