*Term refers to the bags in which drugs are sold and drug-addicted prostitutes.
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I followed up with the BCPD anonymous tip line regarding the never-ending parade of the undead junkies wandering up and down the alley all hours of the day and night. Both detectives that I’ve spoken with on this tip line have been very cool. Unfortunately, they have not even looked into the tip yet because they are “really getting it handed to ‘em down there in the Southern District.” I was not surprised by the news because the traffic has not stopped, although it does seem to have slowed a little bit.
Still, the open air drug dealing at my back gate is unbelievable. I sit in my office/guest bedroom and look down at the alley and watch cash getting handed over and counted, then bags getting passed. I see people, mostly women, come back several times a day. I see these same women selling themselves on the corner throughout the day and night. It’s still very cold at night and they are out there on the corner, always. I try to make myself feel better by telling myself, “They’re high. They don’t feel a thing.” I walk up to my front door and look back at them, hoping I will feel something, but I don’t because it’s too much. I’m numb. I’m no better and no worse than these women.
I wonder where things went wrong in their lives. Then I wonder if things were ever right in their lives. These girls were little girls at some point too and I wonder if they ever dreamed about anything or played those made-up games like the children on my street. I see what a curse it can be, being a beautiful little girl and growing up poor. It’s almost as if these girls have no chance in this neighborhood. If they make it through junior high without being preyed upon, knocked up, and addicted, it’s truly amazing. You can almost see the outline of what was when you look at them, but it’s hard to tell their ages now. A girl could be 14 or 40. Who knows? They all share that same vacant look and that’s what makes it hard to tell their age. The looks isn’t old or young. It’s just empty.
Last Friday morning I woke up to the inner city roosters again. This time it was one of the undead prostitutes screaming at her pimp. She was standing on the sidewalk and he was sitting in his shiny black Lexus something or other.
“I’m sick of this, Frankie. I’m tired of this fuckin’ shit. I’m done. I’m out of this, Frankie. When you want to get high, I go out on a date. When you want cash, I go out on a date. Where’s my fuckin’ cut, Frankie? You’re not the one out here going on dates, mother fucker. You don’t give me no cash. You don’t come pick me up when you say you will. You take all my money and I can’t even get a fuckin’ cab and you leave me out here, Frankie? You always leave me here, Frankie, and what I’m I supposed to do?”
Frankie hands her a wad of cash and I watch her count it, shaking her head. She counts the cash a second time.
“This is it? This is all I get after being out here all night? Fuck you, Frankie. I’m fuckin’ done. I’m fuckin’ done. No more dates, mother fucker. You wanna get high? Then you fuckin’ stand out here and suck dick all night, mother fucker.”
And with that, she throws the entire wad of cash at Frankie and walks away crying. It’s 6:30 in the morning and 35 degrees outside. She’s in a baggy white t-shirt, black lycra stretch pants, and Keds with no socks. I try to make myself feel better by telling myself, “She’s high. She doesn’t feel a thing.” I watch her walk over to Washington Blvd, hoping I will feel something, but I don’t because it’s too much. I’m numb. I’m no better and no worse than her.
