It's a fine afternoon in New York. The air is calm, a hint of cigarette smoke drifts by, and the rumble of traffic echoes from the highway. You pass Doc's drugstore, where some Jet girls sip colas, and a bridal shop where Shark girls are busy with gowns. Suddenly, shouts erupt from an alleyway. Riff and Bernardo, surrounded by their gangs, are locked in another heated argument about turf... Riff: "Get off our turf, you Puerto Ricans! We were here first!" Bernardo: "This ain't your turf anymore, gringo! We're here to stay!"