Read When I Was the Greatest for Free Online

ain’t never even been across the bridge. It’s just one of those things.
    There were shops everywhere, and I looked around for the knitting store while Noodles looked around for girls.
    â€œHey, Miss Yellow Shirt, I like them legs,” he said. Then, when Miss Yellow Shirt looked at him sideways, he said, “You ain’t even that pretty.” Then he turned to me and said, “Yo, ain’t no black chicks down here?”
    To tell the truth, I was feeling kinda nervous about being in that neighborhood, and was more wanting to find the store than try to bag girls. After checking all four corners at Atlantic and Court Street, I finally had to break down and ask someone where the store was. I scanned the people waiting on the corner for the light to change when I saw an older woman who had that knitter look to her. And I was right.
    â€œExcuse me, Miss, but do you know where a knitting store is around here?” I asked as politely as possible.
    â€œOh, Knit Wit, it’s right over there. In the middle of the block,” the older woman said. She pointed and smiled, and I just smiled back, a little embarrassed.
    â€œNot for us,” Noodles chimed in. “For my brother.”
    We walked down Court until we got to a door with a wooden sign with KNIT WIT painted on it. The words looked like yarn, which was kind of cool and kind of corny at the same time. It was obvious this was a place for old ladies.
    The door opened, and we were greeted by a cat. That’s not weird for stores in New York, but it just didn’t seem like a good idea to have a cat hanging out in a yarn store. One bad day, and that cat could go bananas and shred the whole place. The fluffy kitty rubbed up against Noodles’s leg, and Noodles halfway kicked it. He screwed up his face to purposely make himself look tough, like we had come to rob the place. Butwe didn’t. At least I didn’t. Just came to get some yarn. Black boys, looking for black yarn. That’s it.
    â€œHello, boys,” the lady at the register said. She didn’t really have that knitter look the old lady who I spoke to outside had, but then again, neither does my mother. She had on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. She also wore those hippie sandals that white people wear. My mother calls them Jesus sandals. Jazz calls them water walkers.
    â€œHello, how you doing?” I asked, trying to be mature and comfortable.
    â€œI’m well, thank you. And yourself?”
    I like when people say “well” instead of “good.” Always sounds smarter. But I usually say “good.” It just feels better coming out.
    â€œGood, good,” I said. I could feel things about to get awkward.
    â€œSo . . . what brings you in?”
    â€œOur feet,” Noodles said, just loud enough for her to hear. I nudged him.
    â€œOh, nothing much. Just looking for yarn,” I said.
    Hippie girl smiled.
    â€œOf course you are.” She held her arms out like she was saying, Duh, there’s yarn everywhere , dummy. It’s a yarn store.
    â€œYeah, but specifically, black yarn,” I explained.
    â€œYou know what weight?”
    â€œWe’ll just look around,” Noodles snapped. It came off pretty rude.
    I forced an uncomfortable grin as we turned away andstarted walking toward the black yarn. The store was organized by color, so it was easy to see exactly where we needed to be.
    â€œWhy you being so mean, man? Lady was just doing her job,” I asked Noodles while squeezing different yarns like they were cantaloupes in the grocery store. I didn’t even know yarn had so many different feels. Weird.
    â€œMan, who cares about her? Just trying to cuff one and bounce,” Noodles said. “But we gotta get the right kind for Needles.”
    Again, I didn’t say anything. I thought it was funny how even though he didn’t want to be in the store looking for yarn because