Yesterday, after I walked Megan back to her place, and declined the plate of lasagna that had bought me hither because her roommate’s cigarette smoking ruined my appetite, I journeyed home through some of the lesser alleys and side streets of Northeast Baltimore.

On a grass-paved side street—I kid you not—I walked by a yard in which a 120 pound pitbull hurled itself at me against its master’s fence, chomping and salivating for my blood like my fictional animalistic action hero Jay Bracken wanting to eat a homosexual future cop alive. I noted the quality of the ragged slurp of flexing jaws for my next Jay-bone scene, and wondered if there was anything I could do to keep this thing from eating me with only a razor blade in my pocket.

Heading down a heavily shaded adjoining side street I walked by a man and his two boys playing ball, an act that whites no longer engage in as they vegetate at their videogame console.

I came to the main drag and—still irritably aggressive over my walk with the woman who wanted my protection but insisted on walking next to me—stepped out onto the center line to let the traffic go both ways. A young fellow with braids, smoking a blunt in a ’98 Toyota, stopped and waved for me to cross. I gave him a wave and jogged across and through an alley to another side street.

As I emerged from the alley I ran into Aldo The Urban Grill and Evers, two Northeast Baltimore characters. Here is what I can recall of Aldo’s end of our conversation:

“Hey Jimmy, this is Evers. Evers, Jimmy, former Master of Hell. I used to work for him—ruthless dude. Ruthless but fair.

“You gained weight Jimmy—like twenty pounds. Evers, mutherfucker used to fight. Now he writes stories. He ought to beat the shit out of Sol You Know You Are A Jerk.

“You know Sol got married three months back to that poor girl—don’t know what the hell she was thinking. He’s living in a doorway or something with his dog now, who seems to be the big loser in the divorce. Anyways, you know I have Herman living in the basement—he’s recovering from that shoulder operation and can’t work so he’s got a free home. I take care of my people. The other day—last week—Sol comes over while I’m gone and sneaks downstairs, wakes Herman up and beats the shit out of him with his guitar, trying to get him to leave so he can have the apartment.

“Dillon was home so she told Sol—lied because you know I hate the pigs and don’t want them in my house—and told him she had called the cops and he skedaddled before Herman got hurt too bad. I just got some of my intestine removed—thought it was a regular hernia but was worse, so I’m not kicking his ass. I talked to Sol down on the corner. Now he respects me. What does he say, he uses the opportunity to try and talk me into putting Herman out and letting him live down there. I suppose jaggermister does that to the brain.

“Well, I suggested he fight you for your apartment—being as he got put out so you could have a place to write. But he was like, “Naw, Jimmy will beat the shit out of me all week long—fucker is evil and don’t get tired.’

“So here is what I said, ‘You know, you should ask Jimmy for a stick fighting lesson, and maybe he will find you a place to live.’ I said that hoping you would beat his ass.

“Oh, that’s right, it’s an honorable pursuit and you don’t do that. That’s too bad. Thought the plan was kind of diabolic myself.”

This is how our conversation ended.

“Well Aldo, the boys are coming back out to scrimmage on Saturday. We’ve taken the month off. And Cory, he has dibs on fresh meat. I’d be honor bound to train and corner Sol to my best ability. But if he agrees to roll with Cory…”

Aldo’s Dracula like continence lightened to a brighter pallor of gloom and he grinned wolfishly at Evers as Evers [a tiny toothless copper-skinned black man] cackled with hand-rubbing glee, and Aldo intoned hollowly, “Cory, the giant Viking dude! Good night! Herman will like that! Take care Jimmy.’

And we were off on our separate ways, up one alley and down another.