The Riches have provided me with a kind shelter in a disapproving world at a fraction of the going rate. As they see for sale signs go up in their well-manicured court, and, when they drive to their sterile office jobs on suburban side streets, they must deal with belligerent jaywalking as hooded thugs flooding the area at the behest of the Federal Housing Authority flex as they conduct their bull parade, walking down the center of upper middleclass side streets and daring the polite white rabbits behind the wheels of their cars to contest their right of way. Miss Rich, just home from the purchase of her new Mercedes G-Wagon, and knowing me for a local boxing coach and stick-fighter, off-handedly asked if I would be “patrolling.”

I could not disappoint that kind of confidence that something of my macho past still clung to my decrepit present. Of course, besides being head of security for this single family home surrounded by brownstones—like a tree crowded by brush—I am also, ahem, the housekeeper. I don’t suppose there is a good place for a masculinity writer to slide in the news that he’s cleaning a house so he can live there on the cheap, so, there it went. Under such wan light one might accuse me of going out on patrol as an exercise in testosterone restoration…

Between 9 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. I ironically patrolled the same portion of Towson I grew up in from age 2-13. The architecture is dominated by very nice brick rowhomes in 4 to 5 unit rows, with spacious alleys, dotted with parks, churchyards, gated ranch houses of the 1950s and some other odd architecture, such as the Rich’s residence.

On my trek I encountered 5 bulls on parade:

- An angry faɡɡot strutting like a peacock down the middle of a residential lane

- Two thugs in hooded uniform, blasting music from some unseen devices as they swaggered and flexed in the middle of another otherwise cozy side street

- A hooded, ski-masked thug, enjoying the sixty degree day in menacing anonymity, flexing at me and hooting like a baboon as I checked the ground litter in the park

- Another flexing teen with hood and mask prowled on a shaded side street behind where I used to live with Ajay.

I otherwise encountered a drug dealer, a responsible adult of about 35, walking his Rots in the park.

There was a scout, casing joints from under his high and tight hood at Towson Crossing.

There was one big, retired thug, eating sunflower seeds on the steps of an apartment building, who greeted me politely.

In this 80% Caucasian and 5% Asian and Latino area, virtually everyone walking the streets—mostly side streets—were black dudes heading north from the city.

On the parks and school yards I found no syringes or crack vials, only blunt wrappers, which is a good sign.

Ominously, when I checked the ground litter at the Loch Raven Rec Center, where I have often trained, which sits on the border of Towson and Parkville precincts, I found the scene of some recent violence.

I think the person with the .45 auto was firing defensively in 2-3 round pulls as he retreated along the asphalt footpath. The angle the shell casings ejected from suggest he was firing at the cut through by the rec closet, which I have seen thugs regularly use to access Towson, Loch Raven and Ridgely Oak from the rapidly ghettoizing Hillendale, and to retire through too, after their crimes are done.

He fired three rounds from under the large tree, 2 brass casings marked with RP and 1 stainless steel casing marked with WW.

From ten paces down the path he fired I of each, all casings ejecting in the grass just to the right of the path for someone turning to face a threat.

There was no news of a shooting. However, social media reported 7 rounds being heard from this location at 11:00 p.m. last night.

Towson isn’t dangerous during the day yet, but the thugs from the city already own the night.

A Fighter’s View of Predatory Aggression: The Forever Autumn Press Edition