The view changed all too quickly as D’s eyes met the one place he tried to ignore at all cost. The area of Old Town. The pit of his stomach knotted as his head became burdened with visual cues of unkempt cobblestones with excess litter overflowing from the hidden trashcan behind an untidy shrub. D became more nauseous as every pothole was felt. However, that was a sacrifice he would make as he wanted nothing more than to leave this image of a decaying foreground of burned-out buildings being occupied by drug-addicts and their suppliers. Unfortunately, the red light on Presidents Street provided D with the perfect vision of Old Town. Reluctantly, D observed with keen and painful insight. Decade-old abandoned stores held their majestic and historic architecture, but had been abused by hard living. Holes of light shined through boarded up windows as it accented an “unofficial gun range” for the city. In fact, even though Old Town was closer to East Baltimore, it truly felt like a ghost town from an elapse Western movie. But, unlike the western movies, there were no Clint Eastwood inspired “Man With No Name” entrepreneurs. This ghost town still held employment for many who wanted to make a name for themselves. A name and a connection was the most important thing in the City’s profession of “Street Pharmaceuticals” and “Unsanctioned Escort Services”. As much money as these jobs provided, there were literally no benefits or insurance that your life would continue beyond the day in such a hostile work environment. It seemed as The American Dream met it’s economic tombstone as it strolled down the walkway of Old Town. The rich got richer and the poor died of AIDS or an unexpected punctured skull from a gun-related incident. In all of D’s observations, what made matters worse was the intensity of this sore spot by the ever-thriving background of the Inner Harbor and the Power Plant as it casted its shadow onto its forgotten brother.
Posted on: Sat, 05 Jul 2014 15:36:12 +0000
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