On Monday night 11/24/14, as things were heating up in Fergusson, I was supposed to be overrun by rampaging blacks as I walked the streets of Baltimore on the way to work. But no, they were watching the Ravens play a football game, a mixed race effort if there ever was one; a sport in which blacks generally do what whites tell them to do. In my mind’s eye the race rioters around the nation are also taking directions from white advisors on the sidelines; only more of the Manhattan mutual fund molester than a big angry football coach.

In any case, as I made my way home yesterday morning, wondering what the night would bring when I headed back out…

I noticed a real estate agent showing the newly remodeled house [remodeled by an all Mexican crew] to a handsome young hipster dude and his fine young mate.

I wanted to walk over and say, “Hey folks, I know it looks great, and the Hamilton Tavern down the street has the best microbrew selection in town, but, that big house across the street is a halfway house to 11probates, the guy three doors up is a crackhead, the house five up from that is a rehabilitation house that coughs up a body for the coroner thrice yearly, and the house five up on your side, is an actual crackhouse!”

As much as I wanted to ruin this house flipper’s sale, I was taken aback by the pleasant prospective neighbors, and their polite ways and good looks, and began drifting into and End Time reverie…

The place seemed oddly empty of servants, and no one was stacking sheaves of grain in the back yard. But the man I pay to manage the mansion—and he does this for a mere $100 per week on the condition I permit him to run his business out of the ground floor—is there and welcomes me with a respectful, “Good morning Mister Jim.”

Later that night, as I donned my duster and hat, and hefted my rapier-like heavy gauge umbrella and prepared to leave, my loyal estate manger, S.J., was there thoughtfully at the door to remind me to be careful, as our former chattel were said to be running wild on the street. I hefted the umbrella he and his woman purchased for me at Home Depot and declared, “I have named this Bane of the Oppressed, and let the lowly beware!”

S.J. went about whatever he occupies his time with when his master is not typing his memoirs in the Executive Suite, and I sallied forth—to an empty world once again. As I walked to my private stop, apparently put there for my use alone as no one else boards there—the Mulattress Mayor ever doing what she can for the man who retook White Avenue from the rabble—I took a call from Marvin, a law student from out of state who inquired about my health in the wake of the increased tension in Baltimore he was hearing about on the news broadcast.

Once at the stop I noticed a cop car slow down, turn its lights on, and cruise by me curiously. A half hour later two young black fellows, pants around their knees, came walking toward me smoking blunts [dope-packed swisher cigars]. As they passed me another cop cruiser slowed on the other side of the street. I thought this was in suspicion of them. But no, as they passed, and for about 15 minutes, this police officer eye-balled me; a white-bearded fellow leaning on an umbrella-cane. I know that my readers expect me to make a disparaging remark about this hereditary enemy of mine. But, in his defense, the dutiful law officer was:

Probably

Inferring

Gguilt

.. and I am after all a local dignitary.

At this point, with the bus a half hour late, I began considering the prospect of protests downtown having wrecked the delicate balance of the bus schedules. Let us say, for whatever reason, there is civil unrest: what about mass transit users, and specifically municipal bus patrons who will be packed from 5-50 on single coach vehicles operated by a real and present, and all too human, driver?

The first consideration is that people will have been out in the weather for an hour or more before they ever get on the bus, as was the case last night.

Bus drivers come in 4 varieties, from worst to best:

1. Bitches

2. Zombies driver-bots

3. By-the-book functionaries

4. Men and supermoms

If your driver is a bitch, in the time of civil disorder, and something or somebody imperils the bus, you are best off of it—bail brother.

If he or she is a zombie driver-bot just hope she does not stop.

If the driver works by the book it all depends on how the rules he operates under align with the scenario, and how much cooperation he gets from you. These drivers are very vulnerable, have a history of being attacked as they drive or sit, and are not in position to enforce their will while operating the vehicle.

Drivers that are successful in dealing with attackers or disaster situations do so because they have earned the goodwill of assertive men and women among the passengers.

Finally, an hour and a half after the last bus was due, it rolled up without a destination heading. I stepped on the bus and asked the female driver if she was going all the way or stopping at Overlea Station. She refused to answer, was locked in behind her plexi-shield, and just looked at me in fear.

Some of the patrons told me I’d have to go down through the city and out again, that this line was ending at Overlea Station. I off loaded, noting the cold, tired and haggard look of the passengers, as well as the harried look of the driver. This was not normal.

I learn later, from the patrons stranded at Overlea Station, that the driver had shrilly told them she did not care how they got home, that she had a car waiting for her at the terminal, and that she was ending the line at Overlea Station.

Ten minutes later, just as I was considering walking the ten miles to work another #55, with the Fox Ridge destination lit up across its face, came down the road and stopped for me. One of the two regular bus drivers at this time—both men—let me on. This fellow has the look of a former college athlete, is about 30, runs a business in partnership with his brother, and attends church regularly. This I know from his conversations with men his age who sometimes stand and talk with him as he drives.

I will call this driver Brant. Brant befriends all young men and does small kindnesses like letting a dropped dime slide or picking a fellow up who is running for the bus.

Brant makes a point to get to know the men who are regulars and who appear to be able to take care of themselves. The first time he ever picked me up I had stepped in front of the bus to make him stop. He apologized for not thinking I was a passenger, saying, “No offense brother, but I thought you were a homeless pedestrian darting across.”

Over the months he has asked me a question here and there, and even asks me if I’m okay, if I have taken a night off, wanting to know my schedule. Brant wants to know when I will be there for him when some thug starts bricking him in the head or a herd of rhino babes start stomping him out for reminding them of the MTA rules against smoking blunts and listening to loud music on the bus.

Last night, he stopped the bus while I entered my fare and said, “I didn’t expect to see you out here, with this stuff going down. Who are you?”

Brant had a load of disgruntled passengers to pick up at Overlea Station. The ones who had already paid cash got on for free, and then a tall handsome lady, who had come to sit back next to me with her ghetto bitch friend, said, “Oh My God, those boys are walking. I have to ask the diver to stop for them—it will take them hours to walk all the way to Fox Ridge.”

Her friend was mouthing off about how ridiculous it was to look out for someone like that, but she went and did the deed and Brant Picked these two queers up; a mated pair of college bone smokers, one with jelled the other with colored hair.

Now it is time to run the civil unrest/alien invasion/zombie apocalypse scenario, when the bus has its full nighttime crowd of 20 and is set for the long cross-county haul of about 8 miles.

There are a number of non-descript man-children coming home from fast food jobs.

There are a few working ladies heading home from cashiering jobs at retail stores.

There is a junkie.

There is an old lady.

There are three hot ghetto hos, wearing wife beaters and miniskirts in the cold night, returning from ‘the so-called fuckin’ riot’ disappointed that they had not gotten to witness any Yo versos Popo combat.

The Maroon is a coal black, hard as nails, West Indies islander with a beard and nasty dreads, who looks like a reliable murderer if I ever saw one. If something bad goes down I need to watch him. He has a harshly cordial relationship with Brant, who he no doubt despises as a half breed but tolerates. If something really nasty went down I would watch him before deciding whether to nod to him and let him know I wanted a truce, take him out, or preferably, ask him if we could ally for the purpose of helping Brant.

You see, with most drivers, this is not on the table. With Brant in the seat I have cause to try an alliance with the only guy I’m pretty certain could take me down and out. I would have to approach the subject delicately but with confidence. This is why being a boxing coach and working on mixed race crews has prepared me well for such alliances.

You need to know where your background would help you make that ass-saving alliance in dire times. The best piece of overall advice is that action speaks louder than words, and such words need to be very concise. The pitch must be one simple sentence or less, and must be accompanied by honest eye contact.

In this case the Maroon is likely to favor a strong white man, as his kind are generally at odds with American blacks. In fact, ‘The Running Man’ an aboriginal looking black man who has been a local extreme runner for 30 years, is now no longer a celebrity cheered by ghetto boys and business owners alike as he jogs along on his acetic journey, but a target for hood rats to beat and gang stomp recreationally.

Big Boy is a large dour white boy of about 20 who wears a hoody and scowls at the blacks. On this night he is seething. Whether I make an alliance with the Maroon or not, a knowing nod or a whispered phrase with a hand on the shoulder should easily achieve an alliance with this maniac, who glares at the world with the eyes of a young man who came to know it without a father.

The Slumberous Giant, a huge and possibly handicapped young black man, is the only other male on the bus with the potential to impose his will on a man—if will he has. In any case, he has a lot of possible imposition. Either Brant or The Maroon would have to come to an understanding with him. I could not risk asking a black man to do something without seeming like a wannabe Master, and could only get away with approaching the Maroon without appearing to be a conniving white devil because the guy is so obviously dangerous that merely approaching him confidently marks you as the same.

The Sister is the rare good young woman who will do what is right for a stranger despite peer pressure to live and let die. As soon as I established what Brant’s needs were, I would go to her first, just to ask her to keep the young ladies calm, whether we were getting stoned, shoot at, run off the road, stopped, or boarded, all of which has happened on buses that I have been on. I have even been on buses that county cops have targeted for harassment because of some beef with the Transit cops.

Think about the dynamics of the group above, realizing that they are the only ones that matter, and that Brant and the Maroon matter a hell of a lot. For one thing, in such circumstances, for any one person to try to save himself of others, or do anything for the common good by ‘taking charge’ of strangers, particularly those belonging to a rival ethnic group, is just going to add another layer to the disaster. If you have a competent—or hopefully proactive person like Brant—in an existing leadership role, your best bet is to support and help them, and not be the center of attention.

The mated pair of fags behind me spooned in their seat, hugged each other, petted comfortingly, and discussed their disappointing experience at ‘the riot’. They had been recruited on their college campus to go downtown and join in a protest, and ended up being disappointed in the lack of police casualties, police disarray, and damage to property. They were particularly horrified by the fact that a number of ‘innocent African American men’ who were beating and kicking a car that had a white man in it, where struck by the car as the criminal white man sped off, and that they had no confidence that the authorities would prosecute the man. The older queer held out the hope of the DOJ bringing hate crime charges against the violent motorist.

The maroon looked on in disgust at these faɡɡots, as if imagining roasting them over a voodoo fire. He called in a low even voice, “This stop,” and stepped off into the night. With this the two honeyspooners whimpered, spoke of hot cocoa at home, and of ‘discussing our many problems after a bath’, and the ghetto girl across the aisle next to Sister, snarked, “Get a room muvafucking faɡɡots—gross bitchez.”

Just before I began to gather my things to off load the one protestor snuffled, “How will African Americans ever get justice? I wanted to see a police humvee flipped over but this shit was weak.”

His lover patted him on his soft curl-covered head, kissed him on the temple and soothed, “We’ll get all the students to call out of school one day. We’ll show those teachers. They won’t know what to do without us.”

Such are the rioters that one of the most dangerous cities in the world coughs up from its bowels on the command of the media race mongers. I’m feeling pretty good about the prospect of full on residential rioting around Northeast Baltimore, feeling like that jaywalking fantasy of mine about standing over a pile of enemy dead while some hipster lawyer’s perky widow clings to my knee was not so farfetched after all.

I did note on arriving in the county to work, that the white customers and employees were angry, and that the blacks were embarrassed. The crew was waiting up front standing around a box of broken pallet slats talking about fighting off looters and how they were cowardly scum.

On this quickly vanishing American holiday, submerged by the Black Friday tsunami, I remain thankful more than ever that my enemies are weak, lack resolve, and will ultimately fail our Masters at their nefariously appointed task.

-Wednesday, 11/26/2014