“This generation is off the chain—they got no shame!”

-Miss Jenny, 10:50 p.m., 6/7/17

The moon was full and bright to my left as I headed south to the bus stop in Towson.

The sky was not yet dark to my right; the western sky still glowed azure from the sunken sun as the night cooled unseasonably, my pit bull warding umbrella unneeded under these clear skies, the rain already fallen.

The bus emptied itself of its wary few before getting back out into the County, into the prime paleface hunting territory.

Eventually, with Miss Jenny regaling the three of us with tales of an insane generation of hate-schooled youth, the bus rocked to a stop for me, the only person who any longer cares to offload here late at night.

Even Eunice, my African ally, has been absent for a month.

Waiting for the bus are two tall, fit youths, 6’ 1” and 150, in jeans, black designer T-shirts and unzipped hoodies.

Did they wait to board?

No one gets on here at night; it’s near the end of the line.

They fix me with dark, narrowing eyes, and as I offload through the front door, they both pull their hoods over their heads and zip up, placing their hands in their hoody pockets, nodding to each other as I shoulder my pack next to them, and wait.

These negroes—half-bloods at best, maybe quadroons—are amateurishly obvious.

I see Eunice across the street, by herself, in the shelter, her New Orleans-based You Tube preacher speaking of God and forgiveness. This is how she acts when expecting trouble. Otherwise she would be walking her little perimeter.

They wait, looking toward Eunice, but tensing toward me, pointing their chins my way.

Have they marked me or her?

If it was her they could have already taken her.

I am the hard target, she the easy one.

Will this be a BLM operation against my 10K a year white privilege, or pure predation upon the African woman?

Are they waiting for me to leave so they can go after her?

Or will they trace me up the way?

I heft the umbrella left side, keeping my right free toward them and cross. I stop 20 feet from Eunice and they step to the curb, making ready to cross, hands in pockets, game faces on.

I walk diagonally behind the bus shelter into the darkened lot of the Aldis.

[Location photo link below: I was to the left of the tall white man in the photo. Eunice was alone under the shelter. The hunters were at the camera angle.]

[Location map]

They began to cross.

I stopped to make certain they were not going after Eunice.

They pass in front of the bus shelter, walking in the street and making the sidewalk that turns onto Eastern.

I start hoofing it to get to that same walk ahead of them.

They notice and slow down, letting me take the lead.

I make the walk, them 60 yards behind, stop and look at them.

They stop, hands in pockets, returning my stare.

I turn left and head out old Eastern Avenue.

In 30 more yards I now have the darkened park on my left, the park that borders the fence of the Essex Precinct.

I stop and turn and see they have cut the distance down to 40 yards. They could easy walk me or run me down.

They stop, hands in pockets, dead-eying me.

I continue and the Black Dogs of Sissy Hell follow, picking up their pace.

I stop and turn, holding the umbrella like a bayoneted rifle and look at them.

They have closed to 30 yards and stop, hands in pockets, their narrow faces unseen as their silhouettes are haloed by the beaming headlights of cars and pickups.

I decide to cross, and also resolve that if they cross immediately I will turn back and close.

I stop on the other side and look back. They have advanced to 20 yards behind me but with both wide lanes separating us.

They look at me, hands in pockets and say something to each other and continue.

I check my skinning knife and right the scabbard so it will draw edge to knuckle side of hand, as it flipped in my pocket when I mounted the curb.

I decide to march as fast as I can and make them show their hand before we reach Middle River Park where everything bottlenecks between the 7-11 and the bridge.

After 100 yards my hip clicks and the pain shoots, shortening my stride, bringing me a glimpse of the crippling winter to come. This pisses me off, so I stop, turn, look at them, deciding they deserve the knife and stepping toward them, ready to cross back over and get it over with.

They stopped, looked at me with creased faces, and then backed up a step when I stepped toward the curb onto the grass.

I then flipped the umbrella back into a two-handed grip and locked eyes with them.

They turned around and walked back the way they had come.

I turned and headed to work, stopping after 30 yards and seeing no one, no sign that they had been there. I hope they melted into the darkened park rather than returning to the bus stop where Eunice waited, protected by You Tube Jesus.

My heart was beating harder than it should have, for which I was embarrassed.

I did not feel any anger and understand their frustration at trying to learn on the job and not being sure if I was “that guy” or “that other guy.”

But still, I had my duties, so I prayed to the night that they would die soon and horribly.

Ten minutes later, as I crossed Middle River Bridge, the #4 came roaring down the street. I turned to see if Eunice had made it on board, but could see only one figure, a dark-haired man on his phone, the rest of the seats empty. Perhaps she was sitting upfront behind the computer housing, or slumped down in her seat, or had returned home before they made it back there. Or, perhaps they were simply hunting palefaces and had no taste for the dark meat of the night.