With few exceptions, since the purge back in April, buses running after 9 p.m., have been at less than half of previous capacity. The few whites who used to use buses at night are absent. Older people are less frequent. However, of note, for those who think that all backs are criminals and that blacks only attack whites, the single largest group that have stopped taking the bus after 9 at night are 18-35 year old black males, the majority of whom worked low paying retail jobs.
Are they out of work?
If so, that’s not good.
Are they taking a cab home?
At $50-60 a fare, that is unlikely.
Are they taking hacks home at $20 a pop?
That is the most likely answer, and at 30% of the income for a shift, makes quite a statement as to how safe they feel on the bus, and more importantly, at and near bus stops.
The two demographics that have taken the smallest dip are black women, and their infant children and toddlers, who are commonly commuting on mass transit after 10 p.m.
There was a new driver tonight, a large black man who did not want to pick me up, but had the choice of running me over or stopping. He refused my “good evening,” before we headed off into the rain-soaked night.
When I offloaded from the underused bus, I found myself standing before a seated white man, about 35, bald, hard eyes, six foot, 190. I wouldn’t give the hoodrats in the area much of a chance of taking him, hands pocketed in his wind breaker as he glared angrily at the nothing that hovered above the wet asphalt.
I sure hope they tried.
I headed east along Old Eastern past the park and realized that I was getting chilly and stopped to put on my light thermal jacket I use for the freezer box.
I was alone, except for a large black man in his 40s walking toward me, with a pack on. He was as nervous about me as I was about him, and we each made sure to give the other his half of the sidewalk. Before the purge most black men would walk down the middle of the walk. Now only black women do that, with all black males who choose not to threaten me being courteous about our ambivalence. Lone adult black men did not act this edgy on approaching me before April. Since then, it’s either like this or they are going out of their way to be polite and say good morning or hey.
One thing that mess did back in April was wake all of the decent people up, and has brought courtesy back into the realm of survival rather than ego.
By the time I hit Gussie’s Liquors I was getting warm and opened up the jacket. I was walking into the wind and it felt good on my neck and chest.
I was on the south side of the road when I passed Shultz’s seafood bar [on my left] and spotted two innocent unarmed youths peddling toward me on the center of the adjoining side street next to the bar. They would be turning left toward Whigger River, or right toward the transfer Point behind me. Six miles above the city line, Fem-M, is taking wannabe thug lessons from 5-Cent.
They stopped talking when they noticed me and then began to whisper. As they came to a stop on the other side of Old Eastern and looked at me, with their hands draped over their handlebars, I saw the second Baltimore County Cop car I have seen on Old Eastern Avenue at night since April, before which I used to see one or two per night.
They watched the cop pass as I walked on, becoming irritated about the jacket blowing back over my arms.
I had no idea which of the four possible ways these boys were going to go, so cannot say with any certainty, that when they turned left and crossed the street to fall in behind me, that they had any ill-intentions.
I crossed the side street that has just been cut to the new marina and exclusive waterfront condo complex, stopped, looked over my left shoulder, saw that they were behind me, and then shucked my backpack. I took off the jacket, kept it in my left hand, tightened the velcro on my long pointed umbrella, slid the pack back on, and hefted the umbrella in my right hand.
They stopped, looking at me, and then at each other.
I turned and walked on toward the redneck bar and the 7-11, toward the Figure-Eight Park at the Whigger River Bridge.
By the time I hit the slope down to the river, I could no longer hear their voices. I turned to look and saw that they had disappeared.
I’m over six miles from the city line, among townhomes that go for 400K, walking through a park that is a slice of solitude during the day and a gauntlet at night; a park where I have seen two gangs parley in a formal manner as I pretended to be some homeless slob on the next bench, and where, this time last year, I saw a white stoner in his 20s trying to talk his girl into getting into a van full of black guys as she cried and gasped. Crossing Whigger River uneventfully, where my coworker was mugged by some other white boy two years ago, the same park where, this past spring, I have silently had breakfast next to a mentally handicapped homeless man while he shook and stammered to himself, looking about nervously, for the police, I supposed.
I make it to work without seeing another soul, still adjusting to dealing with the extra clothing and hooded sweatshirts that people are wearing now, hardly ever certain who is armed and who is not.
I ran into Steevo in the stockroom. He lives in the area, so I asked him what he thought of my walk, and of the two boys on the bikes.
He said, “That pisses me off so much! You know they’re stickup boys. Shit, I was a criminal when I was their age, sold drugs, fucked with the cops and beat the shit out of other kids that came through. But we would never, ever go after an adult, let alone an old person.”
I said, “Thanks Steevo, I feel much better now.”
“No problem dude,” he said, as he walked off, leaving me there wondering how Methuselah has been reduced to a mere syllable of for letters, dull-sounding at that.
With the gut and the white beard I’m being categorized as prey more often by teens and treated with more respect by other men.
In some ways the city is simpler. I suppose it’s nice to know for certain that you’re on the menu rather than guessing.
