Do I, or do I not, look like a rap person? My Existential Crisis in a Swedish Candy Store in Manhattan

We were walking up Allen Street in the LES, Wanda, Derek, Tom and I. Suddenly (cue symphonic audio clip) I spied Bon Bon, the Swedish candy store.

The thing with Bon Bon is that I don't actually know where it is. I just go in every time I walk by. It is difficult to resist the allure of salted licorice. Seriously.

So we enter the establishment. There's one definite thing I like about Bon Bon compared to its arch rival candy shop Sockerbit in the Village: Actual Swedes work at Bon Bon. 

Meanwhile, Sockerbit is staffed by what appears to be an endless stream of college kids from like Cleveland. It's cognitive dissonance to the max and kind of a let down. I like to order my Swedish candy in Swedish. It's weird to know more about the candy on offer than the cashier. Like how to pronounce it.

Anyway, when we go in, fantastic news. A Swede is behind the counter at Bon Bon. He's like 23 with all the vestments of a hipster. He immediately starts messing around with the stereo. A Swedish rap song abruptly ends, to be replaced by something a little more in-store friendly. In hindsight, maybe he profiled us and switched up the beat. Nonetheless, we had a full-stop semi-violent playlist transition.

I said to the Swede something like, "You had enough with the Swedish rap?"

There's always that pause when the Swede realizes they're speaking Swedish with someone who is not Swedish. Thomas the Swedish jazz player told me that he'd know I was an American in four words or less.

The Swede recovers quickly and replies, "No, I love Timbuktu"

Aha. So it was a Tibuktu number which was severed like a head in a guillotine by the Robyn tune currently playing. I'm quick like this. 

 "I don't really know Timbuktu," I say.

He stares at me like I had just copped to a felony. I feel the need to clarify.

"I'm not really a rap-person."

The Swede goes, "Yes, that's clear." 

WHHAAAT?

By the time I recover he has disappeared into a back room, never to return while we were in the store. A lovely young lady comes out and swipes our credit cards instead.

After we walk out, I underwent a minor existential crisis: who am I if not someone who could be mistaken for a rap-person?

But then it dawned on me that I'm the quintessential opposite of a rap person. I'm too old. I was wearing an outfit that you'd wear for brunching and for twizzling around in art galleries. Because that's what we were doing. Also I probably don't look like I have much patience for misogyny, because frankly, I do not.

Anyway, that was Saturday.

But Sunday proved to be the dawn of a new day. Literally as well as relative to my rap persona. I was out front the Met with Renya where a kid hawked free CDs to passersby who would take them. A promotional effort, if you will.

The kid looks at me and says, "You look like somone who likes rap."

I smile a smile as big as the sun and the moon.

Unfortunately the kid gets the wrong idea and then I have to let him down. I am not a rap person. I do this nicely, I might add. Unlike some people. Swedes. In Bon Bon.