The Village of Tall Trees was one of those Baltimore satellite ghettos, a slice of city misery sunk into the county landscape thanks to subsidized housing vouchers and bus lines curiously routed from the worst ghetto in West Baltimore to its annex in East Baltimore County. The Village was served by the #23, which no longer turns around up at the 7-11, because the village is no longer there, but has been replaced by an upscale housing development complete with duck pond and flag. One cringes when considering what the occupants of Tall Trees would have used the duck pond for. With Baltimore City cops now infamous for brutality, and being blamed with causing the low income residents to be brutal as well, it is easy to forget that brutality is a two way street, and that the cops might just be catching the inhumanity bug from those they police.
On the Stoop with Leroy
I’m sitting out on my stoop one night. It’s nice and dark. I’m smoking a bowl and Leroy—two stoops down—a black crack head—is doing what he does.
Then Leroy’s dealer shows up, walks up to Leroy with three of his associates. They speak a few words, none of which I can—or care to—hear, and then “blam-blam-blam!”
Somehow I kept my cool. It was at least a thirty-eight. I could not se it, only the muzzle flash. I couldn’t tell you if it was an automatic or a revolver. It definitely was not a twenty-two or twenty-five.
You know, I’m Columbine right, they expect me to be cool. So I just give him the hand signal, nod that we’re cool, and turn around, and go inside, and they’re on their way.
They knew I did not snitch and never came after me. I can’t believe how many people said I should have called the cops, testified even. They knew I knew, saw that I saw. I was in no hurry to join Leroy.
The Dumpster
My roommate and I worked out in Owings Mills—a two hour commute. We are dropping off the trash on the way to the bus stop. I open the dumpster to throw my trash in, and there is a body.
He was a black man. There really is no other answer to that question—it’s always a black body, and, of course, always a black person that put it there. When I think back I can’t believe how calm I was.
This was before cell phones—or before many people had them. So I walk over to the pay phone, call nine-one-one, and tell them, “Hey I’m at the village of Tall Trees over on Dolittle Road, and there is a body in the dumpster.”
And it gets ridiculous, immediately. The operator wants to know what the corpse is wearing, how old it was, do I know his name, what is my name, why am I here, etc.
I’m like, “Look. None of that matters. Who I am does not matter. What matters is you have a body in the dumpster. Now I’m going to work. Thank you, and goodbye!”
I work eight hours, come home from work—so this is a twelve hour span, and I have to check. So I go over to the dumpster, open it, and there it is, the body in the dumpster. I definitely felt like I had to do something or this poor guy was going to end up in a landfill.
I went over to the pay phone, called nine-one-one, and they repeat all the same bullshit, who am I, where do I live, why am I there. Eventually I just say, “Look, this has gotten to the point where you are losing evidence. This body has been in the dumpster for at least twelve-fourteen hours—you need to come get this man, okay!”
They came and got the body but took their time doing it. It makes you wonder, in this day and age, with no pay phones, do you call on your cell phone?
I mean, I was obviously a suspect just for phoning it in. How many people just keep walking by so that they don’t have to become a suspect? How many bodies have made it to the landfill?
