Cope 2 was going to find his way into this book. I didn’t even have to plan it, I just had to wait until he was ready to come wreck the spot. He bombs every graffiti medium available—concrete, steel, glossy paper stock, and video. He’s been a king in every one too, but “the books,” as he calls them, the books is like a club he’s never even been in. As the doorman, I don’t even check the list, I just unhook the velvet rope and give him room to rush the spot, +3. Of course, he pays the cover; “Yo you should do a story on the bench, bro. I got writers you should talk to that spent mad time up there.” I take the idea and hold it to the light. Looks good to me. Cope 2 steps right to the VIP section, kicks up his feet, and sparks a Cohiba. After exhaling a toxic plume, he reflects on his school days.
The bench was at 149th and Grand Concourse, downstairs. The Uptown and the Bronx writers would sit there and watch the names go by. What kind of impact did those names rolling by have? Sak saw the Sab/Kaze Shark whole car and dropped the baby he was holding, “He was wiggling and I was amazed by the train.” Ban 2 called it “The discotheque for graffiti writers,” and at its hottest moment there were intimidating bouncers that charged cover to every toy that dared to show up. Bio recalled, “The first time I went, the train pulled up, the doors opened, I saw Smily, Dez, and I heard all the commotion and the rowdiness, and I saw people up on the bridge. So when those doors opened, I was like, ‘Maybe I should’nt get off.” Cope almost caught it too; “One time Agent and Skeme tried to vamp me, but I was cool with Ban 2. Ban 2 was stepping off the train and saw them digging all up in my pockets and my bag. He knew the deal. They were trying to house my shit, but he put a stop to that. I guess they gave him mad respect. If you had no respect, and you wasn’t up as a writer, it wasn’t even worth going over there bro. You were wasting your time, because niggas was like vultures.” Sak smiled. “We would play the top of the stairs. I’d keep my hoody on and look at them, then once in a while I’d get the balls to go down and stand next to them and look at the trains in the hopes that I would meet a dope writer.” It was there in the hot glare of hard stares that a generation of writers learned the hard lesson that the weak get beat and only the strong survive, taught to them by a foul teacher called graffiti.
In spite of the violence, the muggings, and the vandal squad running through and gripping the get-up kids, the bench was also an important resource center for several generations of writers. Going to the bench was a ritual that is a touchstone to this day, and hearing a classmate spit, “Yo, that guy was never at the bench,” will drop a writer a grade or two. If you claim to be a graduate of the old school, attendance was mandatory, even if your lunch money was taken every day. The bench wasn’t just at 149th either; there was one on Tremont in the Bronx, one on Atlantic in Brooklyn, anywhere it would be convienent to survey the damage on a line, to hook up with the kings responsible, compare notes, but never convey plans; “You couldn’t tell nobody you were going to the yards,” Ban 2 told me. “A toy could overhear you and drop dime.” So you just watched, listened, and learned. In the old school, the bench was the master classroom, where every student was disruptive.
When the trains went out, the bench stopped being the gathering place it was. And the loss is more than memories. Kings are at a loss for a place to hold court, toys have no place to rub shoulders with royalty, and writers in general have no place to be a part of a family. Even if it was disfunctional, it was enough for competition and communication to flourish. A lot of people took losses at the bench, but many more found themselves connected and respected within its concrete confines. Losing the bench was like getting a community’s collective black book taken. We may be able to replace what information was inside the covers, but the vehicle for passing on the ways and the means of the medium has moved on.
Pure 110 camera artistry, Deli headed for the buff at the 6 yard, 1982.
Cope, “OK. I RELOADED.” Contemporary Cope.
“I meant to shout out Dondi on this one. but I forgot” Consider it done, dun.
