The man was in his med to late 30s, was dark-skinned, 5' 11, 185 pounds, and was wearing a purple fitted hat, purple XXL T-shirt, purple sweat pants, and orange and white sneakers. He nodded respectfully to me as we off loaded from the #55 and headed over here to catch the #3. He is a regular at the bar across from where I coach, and was headed there for breakfast, I suppose. He opened his phone in response to a call and, as I sat and wrote on my lunch receipts, said, "Yessiree, I'm headed out to get some chicken wings and malt liquor."

[Ironically enough a Baltimore politician decrying the death of an innocent, unarmed, black teen in his mid twenties with an extensive criminal record, said on Thursday, "West Baltimore is about more than chicken wings and malt liquor. Apparently East Baltimore did not get the message!]

"Naw, jus' me. Joey, Billy, Eddie, Sho-man, Sleepy, and Big Daddy all been barred from outta dat place."

"You know Sleepy order food every time out. Den, las' time he say he don't like his wings en throw his food at the lady—and his ass is barred out. Fool, 'Nigga it might be dat skunky piss you drankin'."

"Joey en Billy get in a fight ova the game—barred out."

"Sho-man break a bottle over some man's head. Went upside dis whiteboy's head with a bottle. His ass is barred foeva."

He politely stepped away while speaking about this attack on my declining gene pool.

"Eddie, his dumbass cracked Big Daddy on da jaw, up in Big Daddy's joint. Dat fool doin' a year. I aks Big Daddy 'bout dat en he says, "Fool got hisself a year ta live—then he mine."

The bus pulled up and we were off to our respective destinations, respectable and other wise.