When one resides, as I do, in the armpit of the Eastern United States in the societal secretion gland of Baltimore, there is never-the-less, occasional cause to celebrate the beautiful night with a stroll down quiet county lanes. I prefer lanes with sidewalks and without Dodge Ram-mounted rednecks. Last night I split the difference and went into the night under a starry blue sky out in Redneckville to enjoy the cool aftermath of a day of downpours.

This was a calculated act of selfishness, and I had no plans on gathering Harm City lore for this lurid page. However, as oft-stated in this not-so-hallowed space, I am a man of science; a professional writer never without a pen or two on my person. I had forgotten my notebook—any book will do really—and dragooned my left forearm into service as a most uncooperative piece of parchment.

I was strolling down the right side of a westbound road. This road had modest frame houses on the left, and an overgrown tangle of twenty year old woods along the uninhabited right side, which was once home to a housing project that looked like a 1950s motel. That eyesore is thankfully providing root footage for the plants that are reclaiming this defiled land where I once saw a man being batted into traction by three baseball bat wielding debt collectors. Things thankfully have changed for the better at that particular Harm City coordinate. But lo and behold, up the street a ways, heading my way on the uninhabited side was one—no two—figures.

I casually observed the oncoming duo as they were men, and men on foot always bear watching. Just ask the Baltimore City cop that was shadowing me this morning as I strolled along reading in the ghetto. About a hundred yards out I could see clearly each figure. I was unable to determine if they were together or even communicating. They were both speaking.

The man in the front eyed me boldly as he bounced along like a Chicom infantryman from 1951 dogging a column of Marines. He was just under six feet and just over 200 pounds. He wore camo cargo shorts and a camo wife beater, hauled a new backpack, and bounced along on new athletic shoes. His ball cap was also of Blackwater approved urban camo and covered a cleanly shaved head. There were three curious things about him: he made hard eye-contact with me from a Terry Bradshaw pass away; carried a cloth-covered bundle over his shoulder that was ten feet long and seemed to conceal either PVC tubing, long closet dowel rods, or Achilles’ two favorite battle spears; and he chanted something of a marching tune. If Donald Trump decided to go on safari in America’s largest trailer park, this guy would be his luggage porter…and I suppose that I would be his translator.

I shall now type the marching verse I copied onto my arm in blue ink so I can take a shower. Before considering this masterful performance, keep in mind that he chanted loudly and to no one, and in no direction, in particular. Whether he was chanting to me; the stumblebum behind him; or to the hood-rat ghosts he clearly saw peopling the sidewalk in front of their former domiciles, must be left to your imagination. The one man marching band boomed a line with every second step.

“Loog oud Holmes!

“A regonin’ iz commin’!

“Ad da speed a fright man!

“Ninedy miles an hour;

“Rogedin’ [rocketing] block—a concrete storm!

Walg on behine dis shid…”

By that point he was out of clear hearing and continuing briskly on his way.

Next up was the stumblebum; a towering thin man with wide boney shoulders and a square head covered with shaggy black hair, dressed in jeans and flannel. This fellow was having better luck with side-to-side locomotion than forward. As I came abreast of him he hugged a telephone pole like a drowning man, looked across the street at me, and did what else, but panhandle! Regular readers are well acquainted with my dislike of panhandlers. However, I was moved by this man briefly as he hugged his savior pole and looked covetously at me—despite my ten year old clothes—seemingly a ‘pillar’ of his community.

The tall leaning drunk nodded before beginning his delivery:

“Eggshuze me sirrr.

“Hey pal?

“Sirrr, do you thig you coul’ spare twelve cent?”

I responded, "Nah man, I’m broke.”

He waived and mumbled, "Ogay man, dage ‘are…”

He continued to mumble as he staggered on.

In case I thought my weird walk was over I soon came upon a young hip hopster in the right lane of this suburban road; shirtless, pants around his knees to expose his gray briefs, hat cocked to the side. This reminder of the artist formerly known as Fifty Cent was washing his car at night. As he polished his rear fender he looked up at me, put his cigarette to his lips, and took a long thoughtful drag. He then blew a smoke kiss at me with a dark narrow look.

I just nodded courteously and headed for the nearest open business. What else was there to do but get off of that road? Besides, my parchment was all filled in.

If you Harm City readers have any theories as to the bundle hauled by the nocturnal road poet, just sign in below and have at it.

James 6/14/13