After 15 endless minutes – mostly spent trying to decide who in this crowd is going to rob me when I leave – I reach the Plexiglas wall at the front of the check-cashing place. I shove my paycheck, all two hundred and sixty five dollars of it, along with my Massachusetts driver’s license through the little scooped out divot carved into the counter. The stone faced, rail-thin and straight up tough-looking, black woman on the other side of the glass examines the check and then pushes my documents back to me, along with a ballpoint pen with an extra twelve inches of grey duct tape extending from the top of it. I sign my check, noticing the stream of heated air coming through the hole. It feels nice. The proprietor of this establishment must not feel compelled to provide heat to us – the animals – on the other side of the glass.
This is the 6th entry in a series. It stands alone or you can start from the beginning. Find part 1 here and part 5 (the previous entry) here.
Continue reading “Christmas Is Coming – part 6 – Copping “Bat Dope””
My walk from home to work, from Avenue C and 4th Street to 5th Avenue just below 23rd, takes a little more than a half an hour. It can be a real bitch of a walk, especially on a cold day like today. There’s no subway that helps to cut down the travel time in any substantial way, so I’m stuck hoofing it twice a day, every day, unless I spring for a cab, which I’ve done like… once, maybe. Continue reading “Christmas is Coming – Part 3”
The black people won’t stop coming. One after the other I kill them. I dole out a torrent of hyper-accurate punches, kicks and head-butts. I take blow after blow in return – to my face, body, kidneys and spleen – but in the end I vanquish the mother-fuckers. I’m the one left standing atop my assailant’s corpse. Still, there’s always another black man behind the one I’ve just bested.
Continue reading “Race War, It’s personal – part 1”
Andy is being a serious cocksucker and holding onto my money. He won’t give me any. He says it’s for my own good and that I’ll just go and spend it on drugs. He’s right, but it’s irrelevant. It’s my money! He’s my brother, not my father. He’d be a better father than Pops is, but that’s a different story. Continue reading “Family Money”