Months ago I finally asked a customer who was, according to my instincts, a cop, if he was.
He almost had a heart attack.
I eventually comforted him into believing I wasn't a former victim of his police brutality or corruption, and we had a nice conversation, which I split into two articles linked below.
That was deep in the winter.
Mitch used to say high to me every night and did so for five years.
Now, not only doesn't he say hello anymore, if he sees me in the aisle, he turns back around and does not make his purchase—the man is terrified of me, and he does not know I am a writer.
Three nights ago he actually shivered and spun on his heels, cutting his shopping trip short and slithering out the door.
Big Ron did give me an answer of sorts, reminding me that the Southwestern Precinct where Mitch worked, was the most corrupt precinct in Baltimore for generations, and it has been generations.
Shoey told me about quitting selling heroin because after he picked up a kilo from the distributor, he found himself in a kitchen full of uniformed cops, snorting coke. This was in the Southwestern District.
Mitch failed one of those simple character tests, the ability to be a man.
Such simple, low pressure tests are the keys used by men to plot a map of the potential allies, foes and bystanders without doing anything other than extending a friendly word and a welcoming hand.
Mitch is off my map.
Taboo You: Deluxe Man Cave Edition
I don't get it. If he doesn't know you're a writer and so a potential risk to his presumed criminal enterprise, why would his attitude have changed?