This location is across the street from the grocery store the author used to manage.
I was living on Edna, got off from work down at Fort Meade. It was about eleven at night, 2009. I stop at Six Pax & More and a gun fight breaks out on Belair Road and I got down. There was this one black woman that was running for the door and I yelled at her, “Get your ass down. You wanna get shot, you dumb bitch!”
It’s chaos, everyone calls 911, cps everywhere—the ghetto bird [the police helicopter] is out there.
I take my six pack out and get to my truck and the front right tire was out and a bullet went straight through the cab of the truck, through the driver’s window and passenger window. If I had been sitting in there, it would have hit me in the side of the head.
A cop pulls up and I say, “I need a police report.”
I’m changing my tire. He pulls off, ignores.
I call 911 and say I need a police report, my truck’s all shot-up.”
They’re all around, everywhere. They never figured to talk to anybody from the scene of the crime. The customers are gone, the owner closes.
I wait.
I waited 45-minutes to an hour, changed my tire and was sitting there drinking beer [breaking a then enforced open container law], waiting for the cops.
I went home and called them the third time, told them I left and they said okay.
The next day I called 911 and they send a cop. The windows are shot out and I have a tire in the bed of the truck with a hole in it. I tell him I need a police report, tell him about the shooting and he starts giving me a hard time and wants to see my I.D.
I tell him about all the calls I made and the 911 confirmed it. He gives me a hard time for leaving the scene and he wanted to check me for warrants. He was running my name over the radio to see if I had warrants. He asked me if I had the bullet.
I show him the tire. The tire had a hole through and through, show him that it went right through. He gave me a report and left with a bad attitude, like I was bothering him. I was disappointed and pissed off about the police department. I never held them in high regard anyway. But I bet if my wife called and said I was out of line they’d a been right there beating me on the head with night sticks. They’d a been there for that.
The owner was Mister Green Jeans, a mullet and a mustache, sold it to a bunch of Pakis that were running it when this shooting happened.
Thriving in Bad Places
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
