Yesterday afternoon at 4:40 p.m. I was walking home from the diner, five doors from the house where I rent a room. This secondary street gets a lot of foot traffic to the bus stop on the main drag. On the other side of the street headed my way was a young lady I see often. She is five six, about 150, caramel colored and hour glass shaped. She is younger than my youngest son so I make certain to look straight ahead and do not look over at her. She is uncomfortable around men. The first time I passed her on the street she was terrified.

This young lady dresses modestly even in summer, when most black girls dress like they should be pole dancing. She crosses her arms in front of her breasts when she walks, hunching her shoulders slightly. She cannot, however hide her hips, and they were her undoing on this graying winter day.

As I turned to walk up to the house I heard a car stop quickly. It was a small economy car driven by a braided hair man in his mid 20s. He had screeched to a halt a block past her. He was now looking back over the seat at her hips getting farther away, which apparently would not do.

I stopped and watched instead of entering the house.

He sped in reverse until he was even with her.

She hunched her shoulders and slowed but kept walking.

He—or perhaps a passenger—said something through the passenger window and she shook her head ‘no’ and walked on unsteadily.

He got out of the car and slammed the door, which caused her to shudder and stop.

He was about 5’, 10” and 140 pounds, and I was pretty certain I could stop him. I could not, however, see through the tinted windshield to determine if he had an accomplice, and he was now too far back down the street for me to see through the driver’s side. That had me bothered so I picked up the gold-painted cast iron antique clothes iron that we use to prop the screen door open when carrying groceries, beer, or drunken wenches over the threshold.

The girl was frozen stiff, looking straight ahead, seemingly talking to herself or counting.

He then yelled, “Bitch, look at me!”

She looked trembling over her shoulder and he threw his hands out to the side and shouted, “You could a had this girl!”

She held her arms crossed more tightly and squinted as she batted her eye lashes over her shoulder, fighting back tears and choking on some kind of apology.

He then scoffed at her callously as he waved the back of his hand at her in disgust. “Get on down the road you stuck up fuckin’ bitch!”

The thug then slid into his car, slammed the door shut, and screeched wheels as he sped through the stop sign at about 40.

The young lady was on her way, hunched forward and wrapping her arms across her chest like she was freezing.

I am often critical of the loud, abrasive and violent nature of black women in Baltimore. I would say a quarter of black females I run into are hyper-violent. Most of the remainder are coldly haughty, comporting themselves with a too-good-for-you homeboy scowl, that is so ubiquitous I often expect to run into a display of ebony frowns at the dollar store. It is rare to run into a black girl with the passive mannerisms and timidity of a cultured white woman. After seeing harassment of our dainty neighbor I am reminded why nice girls don’t last long in this sewer of sour souls.

If I had a vagina in this town I wouldn’t go anywhere without a steel hairpin in my wig and a rusty razor taped to the back of my smart phone.

I won’t normally help a black defend against other blacks —even when it’s a gang of older boys beating a younger one. But I could not have watched this animal put his hands on this girl. I am designed with an urge to defend women against such aggression even as I show callous disregard for weak men in such dire straights. In today's PC climate that was a damning admission. So I must amend my 'Let the Weak Fall' credo, to, "Let the Weak Fall, unless she's cute and keeps her mouth shut."

I’m glad he settled for insults and went on his unsavory way.

Where is that speeding dump truck with failing brakes when you need it?