Alley 88

“Sun Giant” by Fleet Foxes
From the Daytrotter Sessions

I still find it reassuring that I’m not the only one who goes out of their way to avoid walking under a ladder.

One of the new people I work with asked me today where the happening bars and clubs were in Baltimore. I couldn’t immediately think of a single one. The party scene is a phase I never entered. Mostly, I’m just a home body. She gave me a cursory glance that asked “How can you live somewhere your whole damn life and not know where the party’s at (sic)?”

I preceded to answer her question as best I could, starting with an obligatory “I don’t know,” and finishing up with “But I can tell you, however, that Kennedy’s Fried Chicken and Pizza on Eden Street is deceptively good. Or that there’s no beating El Taquito Mexicano on Eastern Avenue for fajitas and apple soda. The greatest people to hang out with are the old folks at Union Square, even if they ask you if you’re a cop every time you go by to chat.”

Though I can’t help but feel like I’m missing out on the contemporary Baltimore that the rest of my peer-group knows so very well. I know my way around most every alleyway from the Highlands to Sandtown and pretty much every point in between. Experience is teaching me how to pinpoint a Mosher Avenue drug line two blocks away, and which Middle East sidestreets to take to avoid the attention of pushers. But I couldn’t tell you which venue is the best, or what the hip restaurant is.

Oh, well. I kinda dig my out-of-phase existence.

One from the reject pile, I fear.

Hoop dreams.

I’m so glad I wasn’t the only one who saw that guy walking around. I was on my way back to my car and he came up and presented me with a choice — I take his photograph, or I face his kung fu.

Mount Vernon can really be a magical place. Sorry I didn’t stop in to say hello formally or anything; I wasn’t sure if you would be working, and I am a giant social scaredy-cat.

But next time I’m up that way, I will definitely come in for some coffee and ask for refills with a big, cheesy Bawlmer accent.

Bolton Hill is a beautiful neighborhood. It is also a prime example of how quickly Baltimore can turn from a flourishing place into a really downtrodden place in the matter of a single block. Take the heart of Bolton Hill, for instance — a regal, tree-lined park painted in autumnal shades of yellow, while starry-eyed brunettes read all-too-thick novels on shaded benches overlooking stately rowhomes that stand four stories tall. This is Eutaw Street.

A single street south is McMechen Street. The sun beats down on the pavement here, while wandering packs of dope fiends meander in and out of the alleyways that form narrow canyons between rows of ancient houses in various states of disrepair.

My friend Patrick and I went wandering through this would-be bizarro universe side of Bolton Hill. Police cameras strobe in staccato flickers up and down the avenue. A man in tattered blue denim passes us, and turns around promptly to ask if we know where we are. “Yes,” we reply. “We’re from the city.” He shrugs and keeps walking in a way that seems to say “don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Patrick in particular is used to the cold, uneasy stares of West Baltimore’s residents. The racial divide here is staggering.

There’s a rowhome not far from a flashing police light that has been converted into a baptist church. The door is propped open by a wooden chair, and the sounds of a late Sunday sermon spill out into the street. I kneel down and focus on the doorway, where a large woman fans herself with a hymnal while muttering “Praise Jesus” in between breaks in the pastor’s fevered pitch. Patrick walks just around the corner and kneels as well, composing the scene from a different angle.

From the corner of my viewfinder, I see a third-story window slowly open. A man leans out, clutching something in his hand. He says something, cocks his arm back and chucks the bottle down at Patrick below. There’s a loud pop as the glass shatters a scant few feet from him, and a spray of what he hopes is fruit juice covers Patrick and his camera.

We catch up, we laugh nervously. We quickly decide it is time to leave.