From an interview with Megan, 3/25/15

When I was working over on Belair Road [U.S. Route #1] for Andy—I guess back in 2002, when the neighborhood had just gone mostly black—I was on Register Eight at eight-fifteen at night. It was wintertime; dark. This little boy—itty bitty little—with blonde hair and dressed in clothes that belonged on a three-year old—sleeves up to his elbows, came through my line. I'd say he was five.

His order came to eighteen-nineteen—never forget it. He could barely reach the belt to put the stuff up. This was not like some ten-year old kid buying ice cream, candy and sodas. This was a kid’s version of a grocery order. He had a D’Giorno Pizza, a cup of yogurt, a pint of milk, a pint of orange juice, store brand peanut butter, and whole wheat bread—so you know he was used to eating off a WIC voucher.

I ring him up and tell him the price and he pulls his hands out of his jacket. Both of his little hands are holding maybe five dollars in change, and he’s holding it up to me. I said, “Young man, where is your mother?”

He said, “She’s across the street.”

I turn and look across the street and there is not a whore in sight.

I could have cried right there. Some doped up bitch was laying up with some stoned loser, and this kid was fending for himself. He was hungry. And you know that these whores get three times as much money as they need to feed their children, but spend it on steak, and shrimp for their old man and trade the rest for drugs. My cheeks were burning, so I told him to step around behind me while I waited on the next customer. The next customer was an African man who said he would pay for the boy’s groceries, and he did.

I told Andy about it and that bitch said he didn’t want to get involved with calling the police unless it was urgent.

A week later the boy shows up with a nickel, putting it in the gumball machine. I told him, “Honey, that machine only takes quarters.”

“But this is a quarter,” he said.

I talked to him and tried to find out where he lived while I gave him a quarter and he got his gumball. He had been coached or was afraid, because he would not tell me where he lived. “Across the street,” is all he would say, and what is across the street? a bar, two vacants, an alley, and a deserted car dealership.

I had had it. I gave him some quarters to keep him by the gumball machine and called nine-one-one. They must have asked me fifty questions and would not send anybody out until I gave his correctly spelled name, his address—what the fuck! After I argue with this idiot for ten minutes I come back out from behind courtesy, and he’s gone, never to be seen again. The cops never even came. Nobody gave a shit.

Food stamps and welfare are nothing but a gravy train for junkies while their kids starve. I see it all the time, ramen noodles for the kids, and steak and lobster for the non-working piece-of-shit parents. If a kid on welfare eats it is because his grandparents feed him. I’m used to seeing it with the blacks, punching out their kids in the store, smacking their faces in public, unless the kid is lucky and is being raised by the grandparents.

I was on the bus a few months ago and this bitch has three toddlers. She doesn’t even hold the one-year-old’s hand getting on and off the bus. She’s knocked up out to here with her welfare checks—all a year apart—follow her like ducklings. Her two month old baby, she doesn’t even hold its bottle! This infant is smashing the bottle to her face with her palm—I suppose so she won’t starve, ‘cause that lazy bitch won’t do more than spread her legs. That’s bad enough, and you get used to it. But when I see the whites doing this to their children—getting high with their food money—I just want to cry.

I often wonder what happened to that little boy.