You'd found the perfect little nook to commit a little bit of crime in. Just off of 17th street and broadway, there's a gate, usually open, that leads into an alleyway behind a restaurant. Not much to look at for most people, but for all you derelicts, it was a veritable playground.
Littered with garbage, reeking with the conflicting smells of food and refuse, and lit bleakly by what sun managed to get down through a gap in the buildings that ringed the space, it was a dark, dank corner of the city.
As such, you thought it was perfect for a bit of weed smokin' and photo takin'.
Entering the space with your two compatriots, you soon discovered a fire escape that came all the way down to street level. Seizing the opportunity, you clambered up the ladder and subsequent flights of metal stairs until you got onto the adjacent building's rooftop.
Atop the roof, you felt safe enough to engage in a bit of criminal activity. She pulls out a blunt, he pulls out a few cans of spray paint. You get to work, switching off between who's smoking and who's spraying.
This is a celebration of your youth. Only the fact that you are teenagers lets you get away with this, or even think you might. A child of the city, you have a very tentative relationship with the law, if you choose to acknowledge it at all.
You bask in your youthful ebullience. You are invincible, invisible on the rooftop of Union Square, and you are all, if only briefly, royalty.