“I’ve never taken any shit. When I was a girl my parents owned a grocery store in Ocean City: D & J’s Eighth Street Market. We sold liquor. I could run the register even though I was only fourteen, because I was family.

“One day I caught this girl—I think she was sixteen—shoplifting—meat, something—and walked her up front and stood her next to my aunt at the register while I went to tell my mother to call the cops. When I get back to the register the bitch had run, so I ran her down and tackled her, and sat on her. She punched me in the eye and that pissed me off, so I really sat on her. Once the police came and arrested her they found out that she was a runaway who was wanted. She had been living in the cottages across the street.

“Once, it was at night, maybe ten or so, this man walks in. We’re the only ones in the store. I see him through the mirrors—I was good with the mirrors, had a good eye for thieves—take a bottle of Red Roster and slip it into his jacket pocket. The store closed at eleven. I walked over to the front door and locked it, then stepped back by the register and waited. He tries to leave, and the door is locked, he’s locked in their alone with me—not getting out—that thieving piece-of-shit! He looks at me with this startled look in his eyes. I was already pretty good size, about as tall as a man, and I looked him right in the eye, and said, “You’re not getting out of here until you take that bottle of Red Rooster out of your pocket, fella!”

“The way he looked at me you would have thought the Devil was on his heels!”

[I think she was.]

“He slid that bottle out and set it down, so I made him step back and wait while I unlocked the door—keeping an eye on his thieving ass.”

“About five years ago, I think, I was sitting out in my yard, in Rosedale, over by the City line, when this helicopter started circling. I was sitting on my swing, reading, behind the two trees that it swings between. They were looking for this stupid white guy who had been caught burgling a house.

“White guys burgle you. Niցցers shoot you, rob you. The white guy breaks and enters, and the niցցer looks for a person to shoot. I guess it depends on what your tool is. The niցցer doesn’t work, so no tool box—he just has a gun.

“The cops were mostly relying on the chopper, so he was sitting on a back porch pretending that he lived in the neighborhood—a pretty good strategy. Well, eventually the noose tightens and he starts moving, which brings him walking through my back yard talking on his cell phone. He doesn’t see me. He walks by and is saying, to whoever he is talking to, “I can’t outrun a helicopter, man!”

“I let him get to the next yard and then call nine-one-one and tell them that I’ve got this piece-of-shit in my yard and they need to get him. The cops rolled up and nabbed him as soon as he got to the street. But, when I asked them if they got my call, they told me that the information never got relayed to them. Good luck calling the cops and expecting help. You’re at the mercy of the dispatchers.

“My favorite spot used to be the Raven Inn [This is on the Poor Tour, and will be profiled]. I liked the people there, although sometimes they are sketchy. There was Haji. I called him Haji because he is from India and I watched Johnny Quest when I was a little girl. He only tips a nickel for a pitcher of beer, and he’s rude, ‘Hey you, over here, more beer!’

“Well. The barmaids have to take that because the owner wants the customers treated well, and he’s a customer—but so am I. I said, “Hey, Haji, this is America. We don’t tip a nickel. We tip a dollar, or two!’

“He looks at me and looks at my body, then makes the outline of the female shape, looking at me through his hands, and says, ‘How much?’

“I said, ‘How much for what?’

“He said, ‘For you, for your body.’

“I picked up his change and threw it in his face, and said, ‘This is America, motherfucker, it’s free if your worthy—and you’re not!’

“He backed off and has not talked to me since—that little needle-dicked twerp. I’ve been to India, Thailand, China—I travel a lot, and get along fine with the people. But they better not think they can come over here and treat me like they treat their women.

“Then, one time. I’m sitting there drinking with two Mexicans, a man and wife. He was pudgy and she was short and squat. She asked me for my phone number. She was nice enough, so I gave it to her. Then he asks me if I would have a threesome with them, and she was smiling, okay with it, thought it was a nice idea. Oh, hell no! I could have kicked both of their stubby little asses and I went for it. Everybody thought it was funny, except for me. The owner even showed me the security tape of me making a fist and chasing them out the door and down the sidewalk.

“The wife called me up later, still, thinking it was funny and wanting to get together. I told her they better never come near me, and then I think she got the message. These little people aren’t going to come to America and threesome me!”