Through the darkened streets I walked in the middle, there being too many hoodrats at large at this hour in summer.
After five minutes, the lights of the shopping center shone ahead, making me feel like a rat emerging from a sewer, aware that I was in the county, near a 7-11, and might expect to be seen by a cop. Not wanting a jaywalking citation, I took to the sidewalk.
As I came to the corner, a stocky, dark-faced man with wool braided into cornrows, came to the corner along the other walk, with an eighty-pound pit bull on a leash.
I stopped so they could pass.
They stopped.
I leaned on my T-cane, not wanting to be in front of them.
The man glared at me darkly, whether with disgust, anger or hatred, I could not discern.
I regarded him sleepily.
He let the lash fall.
The pit bull made to raise his hips and cross the street and the man snarled, “Stay.”
I decided to walk behind the man. As I did so, the pit bull began to raise and turn and the man said, “Stay.”
As I crossed the street, the pit bull made to rise, looking sulkily at me and the man said, “Stay.”
By a minute later and a block away, I turned to look and the pit bull was still sitting at the corner, the man standing behind it, the leash still slack on the ground.
The Hunt for Whitey
Recognizing and Surviving the Condition of Anarcho-Tyranny
