The pungent aroma of urban decay mingles with my dreams as I jolt awake, my mind already fixated on that fly bomber leather jacket. It's Saturday morning in 1982, and the streets of New York are calling. I throw on my Pumas filled with fat laces, adjust my Kangol hat, and step out into the electric air of 97th Street and Astoria Blvd, heading towards Corona.

My thoughts drift to that fateful night at Harlem World, when Grandmaster Caz of the Cold Crush 4 ignited my fashion obsession. His big Afro crowned with a tasseled kufi, that bomber jacket with its fluffy fur hood – it was hip-hop royalty incarnate. The memory of crossing the Triboro Bridge with my sister Beverly and her boyfriend Vance feels like a passage to another world, though Harlem's just a 15-minute ride from my East Elmhurst home.

With my hard-earned Manpower paycheck burning a hole in my pocket, I navigate the treacherous terrain of Corona. Kool G. Rap's lyrics from "Roads to Riches" echo in my head: "On my man power for four bucks an hour, took some time and wrote rhymes in the shower." But in '82, I'm only pulling $3.35 an hour as a camp counselor in Woodside projects. Every cent is precious in this concrete jungle.

The check-cashing spot is a gauntlet of hungry eyes, Corona cats ready to vic the unsuspecting. But I'm street-smart, my survival instincts honed by the urban wilderness. With $150 in hand, I'm ready to make moves.

I cop two subway tokens at 75 cents a pop and hit the turnstile, witnessing a unlucky soul get caught by undercover cops for fare-beating. His punishment? A day of scrubbing graffiti off trains. The F train to Delancey Street is a microcosm of 1980s New York – grimy, unpredictable, alive. I dodge a mumbling bum, only to be accosted by a junkie with a deep, scratchy voice, spinning tales of canine tragedy, his arms a roadmap of heroin abuse.

As the F train screeches to a halt at Delancey Street, I step onto the platform, my senses on high alert. The scene that unfolds before me is pure New York chaos – I witness some Brooklyn cats robbing a dude who just copped some fresh gear and Cazal glasses. The poor guy doesn't even make it to the turnstile before they pounce. It's a stark reminder of the city's ever-present danger, a brutal lesson in street economics.

I make my way up the grimy stairs to street level, the sounds of the scuffle fading behind me. Emerging onto Orchard Street, I'm assaulted by a sensory overload. The aroma of sizzling hot dogs and shish kebabs mingles with the scent of leather and ambition. This is the Mecca of fly gear, where Stetson hats (possibly inspiring the name of the rap group Stetsasonic) and sheepskin coats hang like trophies in Jewish-run shops. The latest hip-hop fashion is on display – Kangol hats, mock necks, name belt buckles, Lee jeans – a kaleidoscope of urban cool.

In this world, style isn't just fashion – it's armor, identity, survival. We live for this, spending entire paychecks to fit in, to stand out. The irony isn't lost on me – we all dress the same, differentiated only by the colors we choose to wear.

With my prized bomber secured, I begin the journey home. The hour-long ride on the F train to 74th and Roosevelt, then the Q19B bus, is a time for reflection. This city, with its dangers and opportunities, its music and its style, is more than just a backdrop – it's a living, breathing entity that shapes us all.

As I step off the bus in East Elmhurst, I'm already planning my next move. Flushing for Adidas, Modell’s for colored Lee jeans – the pursuit of flyness never ends. In 1982 New York, this is more than fashion – it's a way of life, a cultural revolution unfolding on the streets, one fly outfit at a time.

By Ron Lawrence