Cypress Hill – Black Sunday

In fourth grade I had a babysitter named Kelly who would pick me up from school in her maroon cargo van without any back seats. She was probably nineteen or twenty then. She took me and my brother to Baker’s Square once but mainly brought me home from school and waited around until one of my parents got home from work.

Kelly had a boyfriend named Jeff, who was six or seven years older than her, by my estimate. He liked the band Danzig but otherwise seemed like a loser. Jeff accompanied Kelly to pick me up more than once, which, upon reflection, was strange but didn’t seem off as a nine-year-old.

I remember the last time Jeff tagged along vividly. My eight-year-old neighbor (and future lawyer) usually caught a ride home with us and habitually said mean things to Kelly. That day, he may have told her she was dumb or ugly. Whatever insult he directed at her didn’t sit well with Jeff.

In front of the school, with oblivious kids everywhere, but apparently no adults in sight, the maniac pulled a knife out of a sheath that was strapped to his belt and threatened to kill my neighbor.

Jeff walked a few paces towards us before he caught himself going insane in the brain and holstered his weapon.

It was a very quiet ride back home.

My neighbor walked home that day.

At some point, Jeff vanished. I never knew what became of him, but in his absence, I discovered a paint splattered Cypress Hill Black Sunday shirt in the back of the van. Kelly was more than glad to let me have it. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old. It bloused out of my shorts when I wore it during a choral performance of “I saw the Sign” by Ace of Base in front of a filled auditorium and I donned it on the first day of school in fifth grade.

My bro and I on the first day of school in 1994.

The shirt fell out of my rotation before I’d ever taken a hit from a bong or wanted to get high. At some point, I no longer had the shirt. Now it’s a sought-after piece that I was enthusiastic about reacquiring. It’s not super rare and can be found for sale on Etsy, eBay, and Grailed. There are a bunch of knockoffs and reproductions to get in your way, but if you’re after it like I was then cost is the prohibitive feature, not scarcity.

The price tag that typically accompanies this shirt has been a barrier of entry for me. I missed out on one that sold online for well under market value a few months ago. The listing that ultimately forced my had was mislabeled as “Cyprus Hill”. The bloke selling it lived in the UK and had it priced it for 80 GBP which converted to just over $100. After shipping and taxes, I was all in for $125.

I got a quick little rush of dopamine when I hit the buy-it-now button and another one when I put it on for the first time after it passed through customs, but there is a deep satisfaction and lasting emotional connection to my youth every time I slip it on which is well worth the cost.