Hitting the Tender-Spot

Walk out of house. Look left, look right – don’t want a fight today. Over the street looks like a safe prospect. I am standing right outside my place of abode. I turn left, as I do a middle age man approaches the same crossing. No mask, looks sketchy: we hang back. The other side of the street looks brighter, further out of the shadow of the loin.

As we give him space he pulls down his pants below his tiny dirty little dick and skinny wrinkled ass. We stand there a second. I wonder what he is doing, is he going to poop on the interaction, a brown thumbs down to society. No. It is a threat towards us, he starts talking to us, yelling incomprehensively and them starts to run towards us, we back off, then turn, he is still shouting, we are driven back from whence we came, through the doors, into the shelter. We stand there shaking. Two women offer air hugs, people are tripping we all agree, you are sweet they express their care for me. We are in this together they say, and I agree. You gotta have something out there. You can’t walk out there with nothing. The cops are a joke – they sweep out camps, don’t fix problems, and let them grow again. They have given up, and instead spend their time hassling people who are no threat to them at all. I have no respect left to give, but they get the dregs of it anyway.

I reserve the dregs of my cup of wrath for the men that decide they want to intimidate, chase, flash their dicks and chase. Who threaten to beat with shoes, and push into streets. Who lurch and clench fists. They do not know us. They see Asian boy and mother with short hair. “WHITE BOY!” They shout at me, and knowing I am not a boy, they show me what I am missing. Let them fuck each other to hell.

They hit me in the tender spot. They keep on beating me down until I cannot write, I cannot think, my heart beating out of my chest, my breath coming in ragged and torn, I cannot live with the threat hanging over me.

I love this place with it’s big beating heart, it’s color and people and culture. I love the ‘Loin. It does not love me.

We head up the street, we have to go out, I need milk in my tea. I won’t be forced to stay inside cowering from life. The Boy glances around nervously, regards me in his reasonable monkish way, and says reasonably “I’m starting to feel a bit picked on. What do they want? They want me to change my race? The color of my skin? My eyes? My hair? How do they expect me to do that? What have I done to them?” He looks angry not hopeless. That gives me hope in return.

As we trudge towards Polk, changing sides of the road to avoid the zombies and the terminally angry at everyone around them for the state of their own lives. Patti growls from my speakers: MY SINS ARE MY OWN. I want to open the window and blast it out to the creepers and crawlers, tent sleepers, and users. YOUR SINS ARE YOUR OWN, don’t push them onto us.

But what is the point. My own people are in hell and want to drag me with them.

I need to get out of here. Dylan was right. The cops don’t need ya, and man do they expect the same. There must be a way out of here. I just have to find the right key. Patti reckons it is in Ethiopia. I break down and cry while the Boy puts on another cup of tea.

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