I came home one day and I noticed that when I pulled onto my car pad that there was a lot of stuff back in the fire escape, breezeway area. Upon inspection, there was a bunch of plastic bags, filled with clothes, shoes, purses, a lot of women’s stuff. I was thinking that “Maybe someone is storing there stuff here, that they have been kicked out by their significant other.”
Violence Guy Diagnosis: Arуan empathy gene kicking in to keep the paleface babe in conditional peril.
After a few days it was still there and I know I’m going to have homeless people back here shopping, so I sit out the bags of this stuff, and do that again later in the week.
This was a day or two after, there is still stuff back there. It was perhaps six big trash bags and three suitcases.
I was in the bathroom and I here, “Oh my Gawd, my Apple Bottom jeans was gone, Oh, it’s my life, this my life!”
It is some woman and she was dragging this stuff out.
She was a large black woman and was with some kind of gay dude and a small gay queenie dog, pulled up in the alley with this baby blue Buick and she’s carrying this stuff crying, so upset about her Apple Bottom jeans, about her whole life being stolen.
I look back and my sweet neighbor, Trevor has just gotten home and he’s carrying her suitcases out to the car.
They leave and Trevor says, “What the fuck just happened? Who was that chick? Why am I carrying her suitcases?”
Welcome to Bolton Hill, Baltimore.
Waking Up in Indian Country: Harm City: 2015
