2023, Southwest Baltimore, On a Cold Monday Morning at the Back End of January

‘Israel Flood, what a name.’ [1]

The old black man met Banjo at the McDonalds on Washington Boulevard. He drove a small 1998 Toyota sedan, beginning to rust out under the wheel wells. Seeing Banjo looking at the wheel wells as he leaned with his prodigious backside against the driver’s side door with his arms crossed, he laughed languidly and smiled with half a mouth of teeth, good clean ones on the right, nothing on the left, a sure sign that he had been seriously attacked. He was a big man and drawled, “I didn’t bring it fo’ ya to buy it. I’m juz haulin’ ya in it, right down the road ta Baltimore Highlands.

Banjo smiled and extended his hand, “Name’s Banjo, sir, what’s the job and the rate?”

The big, ashen hand, that had done much work over a long life, this man obviously 80 or more, engulfed his small pale paw, “Breakfast here, move a bunch o junk out a firs’ flo of ma rental down the road fo a hundred dollas, then lunch on me out Essex where you live whateva’ place is open, so as I get you a ride too.”

The old dealer could tell Banjo was not thrilled about the rate, smiled, and raised his big hand with one finger up, “Dem paupers ain’t got much. I gotta snow shovel in the back and some trash bags fo mose o’ whad de got. Furniture plastic Walmart junk and thrift sto cast off chairs. Not even a couch or bed. Dey sleeps on a pile of dirty clothes dey ged from sucker churches. Two hours work is all it ‘ill be. En, if eny hopper pops off en means to clean out da rez’ o mah teeth, datz a hundred a hopper fo kickin’ dey ass. No killin’ er stabin’ juz ass kickin’ sometin dey undastand. Cops don’ come fo dis shid no more wit all da defunded bullshid. Datz why my ole ass is rollin’ up wit a fightin’ man. If’n you come from Stump yooze a cracka what can crack.”

Banjo could not help but laugh, took that hand again, and whispered, “Deal, Sir.”

The big old man grinned and patted his back, “No needz fo sir, Isrаel ma name, moz calls me Flood.”

“Well, Flood, I don’t work on a full stomach. I’ll skip breakfast.”

“Thought so, so double lunch affer we wakes dese no accounts up. Paper work is in. Sheriff ain’t like ta show up. Gotz ma notice dere in da glove box.”

They slipped in like opposites of some weird kind, the driver’s seat pinging like it saw few passengers and objecting, the driver’s side listing as Flood dropped into that much-used seat and drawled, “Ta work, got a knew family ta move in next month. Been a dope deal upstairs, poleese cleaned out da top floor renters. Hope you good with dry wall—dere ‘ill be work on dat account too: $20 an hour unda da table.”

“That will do, Flood.”

The car came to life under those large, split, ashen hands and out of the lot and down Washington Boulevard they went, up hill, into the worst area of this terrible city he had seen yet, as he had walked briskly to this meeting.

‘Deeper into this Kali Yuga world you take me on your wicked loom—whoever you are.’

9:55 AM

Banjo was feeling good, having walked 14 miles from Essex, down the east side of town, through the Inner Harbor, where a SWAT Team guarded the small slice of functional urban life, people in suits having returned to work, and out through the southeast ghetto to Halethorpe, looking something like Suburban Standard in decline. [2]

Flood pulled his car up over the sidewalk on the south side of the street in the middle of the worst ramshackle stretch of Baltimore Highlands. Two white crack whores and their black pimp, who was selling some heroin to a light brown junkie, moved their business off a half a block as Flood slammed his door shut and reached across the roof of the car for the pre-taped eviction notice that had a tear off strip, like this was keeping some print shop in business. Banjo handed it over, shut his door easily, and walked the perimeter of the tiny yard.

The notice was soon taped on the door with a much practiced hand. A folded notice was in Flood’s back pocket as he opened the door with his land lord key. He shoved something out of the way with that door, saying with a cheery tone, “Movin’ time, Mamma. Ged yo valuables en whad ya don’ want sittin’ on the side walk!”

Peering in with a flashlight as sounds of children and the mumbling of some man spilled out with increasing concern, but not as much volume as Banjo expected, Flood spied something and said to him without turning his head, “Bring da trash bags, en da snow shovel, en get you that spade shovel—we gotz us a dead dawg in here. I’ll clean up dis mess while you bury dis sucka out back.”

‘Holy shit! What?’

‘You heard the man,’ came that monkey within, ‘Your digging a grave today!’

Banjo brought the snow shovel and trash bags to Flood, who was dragging a hundred pound pit bull carcass by the collar. The poor thing was freshly killed, having just bled out from an incredible mauling by some of its own kind. The people within were weeping, mumbling, speaking confusedly, children, women, a big man who was stumble drunk mumbling about the dog, “Dey don kilt Eddie, ma dang dawg.”

Banjo bagged the dog, “Sorry, Eddie,” cradled him over the shovel that he held lateral in front of him and decided to make this as decent as he could.

A woman was crying audibly, children were chattering and Flood was speaking with a tacit measure of kindness as he was heard helping the people gather their things, toys that weren’t yet broken, clothes that were still clean, etc.

Banjo had found a wooden fence slat and some zip ties that cops must have left behind. With these and the shovel blade fashioned this slat into a two piece zip tied cross with Eddie’s dog collar with his name imprinted on a red heart hung from the cross. He planted the cross first.

Then began to work with the heavy spade, glad to be out among the frozen weeds, cutting into the hard clay stone earth, doing some thing decent. The drunk man, perhaps 50 and fat, was out back on the porch, leaning on the wrought iron railing, and watching Banjo with teary eyes.

The work was done, a good 2 by 4 foot, 4 foot deep grave, in an hour. The work felt good in the cold morning air, especially when Eddie’s unnamed owner blubbered, “Tank ye, Sir.”

Banjo stopped and answered, “You are welcome…?”

“Bigs, dey calls me Bigs, Sir. I cain’t watch da rest. Please some paves over it. I gotz ta go.”

A half hour later, he stood over a right flat grave, set with four paving stones had from a stack by the wind wrecked fence held up mostly by ivy. Leaning on the shovel he said a word to the heart-shaped dog tag, recalling a broken canine teeth on Eddie’s left side, “Eddie, I hope I have as much fight in me as you did.”

Flood summoned him around front with a kindly urgent tone. His boss was standing before the padlocked door, a family of 7 souls, 2 women, Bigs, and four small children standing among their discarded junk, each with a trash bag in their hand holding their valuables.

‘Less then two hours to dissolve a household.’

Flood was handing out bus vouchers, 3 weekly passes and assuring the family, “The chilren ‘ill ride fo free. Ged ya’all down to Our Daily Bread on Charles Street. Mamma, if need be, I’ll drive you to Social Services en set you up in another. Sorry, they done condemned this one on me on account a dem junkies cookin’ dope upstairs en guttin’ the wiring.”

Banjo looked up at the boarded windows on the second story of the narrow box of a house. Flood, following his eyes, said, “Dis ma new man here. He’ll ged dis back up ta code en maybe move you back in in a month.”

Time slowed audibly.

The pimp was taking money from some man in a Beamer as the crack whores slid in to the back and passenger seats.

A bus was coming.

Flood was pointing to the shovel to be stowed in the back seat.

Mamma, Bigs and the rest, perhaps Mamma’s daughter and grand children crowded to the curb, hands up for the bus.

Flood leaned on the roof of the car and drawled, “Ged you fed, bag ye dinner, en how about we ged back here en ta work.”

He nodded with his big head and tired eyes to the house, “She ain’t too bad. We might have her right in a week, right enough fo an electrician ta ged her wired again.”

Banjo nodded “Yes,” as he watched them board the bus with their trash bags.

Time quickened again, noisily.

The bus pulled off. He glanced at the heaps of dirty clothes Flood had shoveled onto the sidewalk along with bags of trash.

The lane clear, Flood opened up the car and declared, “Ledz roll, Banjo.”

‘2,000 miles to bury a worn out pit bull and put kids on the street. Cut ties here after this house is worked. This is poison.’

His terrible monkey hissed, ‘Don’ don the centaur’s shirt, mute Hercules. You might avoid that raging pyre.’

He mused softly, trying to drive the monkey back into his cave, ‘I wonder if Stomp and Min made it to Vegas?’

‘That kind of thinking will get you got,’ advised his inner critic as Flood drove purposefully, “Out da road,” as he said, placing ten $20 bills on Banjo’s blue jeans lap, “Didn’ figure on no dead dawg.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, folding the bills to fit in his penny pocket, where he made a note to wear that claw knife he had found in Old Stomp’s ruck.

…

Notes

-1. Flood is one of my work place heroes. A novel of his life extracted and extrapolated from conversations I had with him is the subject of the novel Flood: A Life in Deed. This chapter is taken from three episodes in my life, and one in unsketched day in Flood’s.

-JL, 9/19/24

-2. Taken from the author’s four 2023 bus trips here.