I entered the suburban McDonalds on a rainy Saturday morning, purchased a coffee and parfait, and took my seat in the center of the dining area. As I opened my book a voice from the ghetto began rapping. Over to me left was a 20 year old innocent unarmed black teen with large headphones on rapping a tune that did not use the f-word, the n-word, the b-word. As I saw him looking at me out of the corner of his eye and the other middle aged white men reading their books, I realized that he was breaking into simian song to greet each new reader.

I ignored his cry for attention—let him die of loneliness. As I returned to my reading of Lovecraft’s Supernatural Horror in Literature the three men eyed me with disappointment. I got the idea, that since I was the rough looking dude in our quartet of studious silence, that they expected me to go over and shut this kid up. I motioned with my finger for my personal rapper to raise the volume of his song.

The priest closed his book and put his head phones on.

The twit professor looked away from his text in dismay.

The business man slammed his novel shut and walked out in a huff.

My personal musician then began singing a George Michaels song, bracketed by editorial comments about his relationship with his black partner. After that bit of live FM radio he then began composing a rap out loud as he drummed on the table top with his forefingers. The rap was about his trials and tribulations, about growing up poor and sore, blameless and fameless, and then, he chanted, “I don’t know what words to use!”

Mind you his English was perfect. He did not cuss or speak ebonics.

His inspiration seemingly fled, Slow Bro, as I was beginning to call him in my mind, drifted off into silence listening to whatever played on his headset—if anything.

My coffee was almost cool enough to begin sipping. I grew impressed with Lovecraft’s vision of Poe as a writer. Then two old ladies came in and sat down to my side, facing Slow Bro. He did not start playing the finger drum, but instead began whistling softly in between Motown lyrics as he serenaded the old crones.

The priest looked at my hopefully.

The oldest crone looked at me, then noticed my backpack—sure sign of a low status white—and instead of nodding toward the frustrated musician for me to do something about it, disgustedly shook her unmoving head of weightless hair at me and waved over the manager.

The young female manager did not come over but pointed to her cell phone. The old J. C. Penney’s mannequins seemed content in an irate and impatient way. Slow Bro began singing “On Blue Berry Hill” in his deepest voice.

Much to the old crone’s irritation I began chuckling in a muffled way. Slow Bro was encouraged and sang more deeply. I finished my coffee, put on my pack, gathered my tray, and walked toward him instead of the trash can. He gave me a worried look. I was only going to dump my trash on his lap for ruining that passage about Poe.

He looked at me open mouthed and wide eyed. Then I looked over his shoulder out the window and veered to the trashcan and placed my tray there. When he saw that, he mouthed, ‘Oh shoot!’ without even looking out the window, and sprang up as fast as he might to bolt past me out the door and ran directly into two white county cops.

As I walked by the trio he was pleading his innocence.

The point behind including this story is that it is an example of much of the social backdrop one deals with in Harm City. Fatherlessness is so rampant in Baltimore City that this kid literally made a pilgrimage out from his neighborhood on the City line a few miles away, in hopes of being noticed by some adults. [I have seen him in his native haunts.] This fellow could have, should have, been a man. But he was behaving like a 12 year old boy who had been neglected and starved of attention.

I could have sat down with him and had a quiet conversation which he seemed to want. But I did not care about him or the people who were both irritated and fearful of his pathetic person, so just enjoyed the show. The cops were handling him with appropriate composure, banning him from the establishment.

It has been my experience dealing with city youths that about a third of them just want adult attention, and in place of that usually settle for hanging out with more aggressive and mean spirited types. I sometimes wonder how different hood life would be if these kids had fathers—if their mothers were not paid to exile their fathers to the social margin—if they did not have to make up manhood as they went along.