This morning, headed over here to East Baltimore from Northeast Baltimore, I put on the Teamster hoodie and headed out into the cool May rain, having yet to see the sun after five days in the Hideous East.

I forgot the jacket and returned to get it, forgot the hat and returned, and then forgot the Flip, the hero phone and returned for his black ass.

Under the eve at Valentino’s carryout I wondered, will the bus even be able to stop here, with all the deliveries?

A tall, shaven-headed brown man with gold teeth nodded to me and said, “Teamsters? You a driver, sir?”

“No, retired, never drove. I used to unload trucks.”

“Oh, I had a union job, local seventeen, at a bakery. They treated us good.”

“Hey, I haven’t been in Baltimore for a while. What does the bus cost?”

“For a four-day ticket?”

“No, just one bus.”

“One way is like a dollar ninety.”

“Thanks.”

“Where you been?”

“Portland.”

“What’s that like? Heard its all crime now.”

“It’s nice, bunch of hipster faɡɡots, pretty fat girls and some dudes trying to learn how to do crime. Asians and old ladies ‘ill get mugged. The tent tweakers in their homeless camps just pretty much steal bikes and autoparts. I like it—the cops don’t show right away so you can defend yourself and not get jacked up by the pigs.”

“Weed, weed legal out there?”

“Oh yeah. You can’t go anywhere without smelling weed.”

“I figure that’s good—people get mellow on weed, less likely to be violent.”

“Absolutely. If I was a young man, I’d go to Portland.”

“You mean it’s that good? A friend of mine went out there and he loves it. I came up from Georgia sixteen years ago—I think about leaving, but I don’t know.”

“You ought to go.”

“So you been all around?”

“Seattle, Oakland, Denver, Chicago.”

“And Portland is the best of all them?”

“Oh, no—it’s about as bad as Baltimore was in 1980. The best place I’ve been is Denver, lots of weed money, beautiful women, like every second chick would be the best looking bitch in Baltimore.”

“No shit!?”

“Sure, but you need money, need to be a rich dude to buy a house.”

“Yep, dey go where the money is.”

He then turned to say, “Hey” to a short Mexican headed to work with his Ihop uniform on.

The bus then rolled to a stop across Harford Road and the man said, “She wavin’ us over,” and he and the short Mexican headed across, me following, having not the eye sight to have even noticed the detour. The bus wound down Harford to Glenmore then across to Walther, Fleetwood and Belair Road.

The bus was only carrying about ten folk. I sat down across from the rear door behind him, and when he and the Mexican got off at Golden Ring to go to work, he bumped fists with me on the way out.

Getting off at Stememrs Run and Old Eastern to pick up a transfer, a short, dark, fat, semi-toothed woman in a fast food uniform, asked me if I wanted a smoke and I thanked her no.

The bus service is scheduled like a real city and very efficient. I board and head down Old Eastern Avenue, sitting on the first left seat of the back deck. I text Megan about coffee at Dunkin’ Doughnuts and take a picture of the rain outside and a tall, faɡɡot-like light-skinned Gawdling, began accusing me of taking pictures on the bus and trying to rise the other patrons in a mob against me. I told him, “I’m getting off at Eastpoint,” letting him know that I would fight there against whatever mob he raised against me. A young pale mother up front was looking back at me in horror. The hoodrat said, “You lyin’” and shut up.

I offered to let the young man in front of me get off first and he motioned for me to lead off. He was headed to work and putting up his umbrella.

In the Dunkin’ Doughnuts at Eastern and 54th, three old fat Latino men bantered in the corner. Behind the counter is the Paki manager, the yutish doughnut girl, a pretty window girl, a retarded paleface wench behind the register and an older black man cooking.

Ahead of me, at the counter, were two trashy palefaces, the man injured and my age and the woman 40, who winked and nodded at me respectfully and went on demanding many specific additions and specifications to her sandwich, an order that took ten minutes, confused the staff, and caused her to go into a rant, “Goddamned immigrant!”

My order took 90 seconds, a sandwich for Megan and a coffee for me. Headed over into the barrio in the pouring rain, the fast food trash clogging the gutters, I noted that the standard one in three Gawdz were prone to mind their own business or two kindness, and that a full third are violent criminals, always looking for a target for their primordial thirst to attack paler people.