Movin’ down the line “You know who’s in trouble when you have a nigger at the wheel, a spic in the front passenger seat, and a cracker in the back…” “…And another nigger next to him, staring at the white dude,” I hear my co-conspirators as we cross Kennedy Street in the Bluff, a notorious neighborhood in Atlanta, Georgia. We are my girlfriend Kelly, a pale shadow of the Southern belle of Scottish descent with red hair and the whole Braveheart crap whom I christened Kelly the Bruce, also Sano, a genuine Injun of Native American descent, and I, an illegal alien from space, the post-Soviet space. A few seconds ago, we parked our nearly fossilized Tyron, a pathetic excuse for the Plymouth it was once supposed to be, around the corner. Sano, our designated driver with no driver’s license, made his usual comment in a muffled Blair Witch Projectile voice: “I… see… black people…” and added: “I hate driving in the Bluff at night. I don’t wanna run somebody over.” “You’re such a racist,” Kelly retorted. Well, Sano’s excuse is just an excuse. The thing is that, according to urban legend, it is safer for white people to walk downtown in the Projects than to drive a car. Somehow, the police are supposed to be compelled by a mysterious force of unknown origin to ignore pedestrian junkies. Somehow, white folk on foot are supposed to look more innocent and inconspicuous than driving around. That’s one puzzle I cannot seem to figure out, aside from the Americans’ obsession with churches and junk food joints in every street corner—as though making sure they have a place to confess gluttony as fast as possible after making doubly sure they stuff themselves with all kinds of garbage. One way or another, whether through sheer luck or the power of the crackers-on-foot charm, we are safely strolling down the familiar streets of the Bluff.