skonen_blades

A profound thing happened today.
Sonja and Audrey and I had lunch at Save On Meats and decided to walk back home.
The route took us along Hastings past Main.
About a block before Main, walking through the worst of it, someone started bellowing out "KID ON THE BLOCK! KID ON THE BLOCK!" and the shout was taken up down the strip, tent to tent.
Just a few people yelling it out like town criers.
I didn't stare or jump.
Just kept walking.
I didn't even realize it was in regard to Audrey until the second shout.
Anyone fixing that was still compos mentis put their rigs away or at least turned away from the sidewalk.
A few people even watched their language.
A block later passing more tents, I heard it said by a woman in the midst of a cluster of women in a doorway.
I didn’t look to see what was happening or if anything was happening.
I was profoundly moved.
That they'd still look out for a kid.
That they're still present enough to do that.
That they're still humans.
That they still see something as holy.


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They hired me for my street connections and then put me up in a five star hotel with a two hundred a day per diem. Total idiots. My street cred would be ruined if I even came with walking distance of this palace. Typical mistake made my employers with too much money out to impress the help.

I walked into my room, laughed, walked back out, and went out through the lobby. I had everything I traveled with in my small backpack. I gave most of my per diem to the first homeless person I saw. That took six blocks of walking. My only hope that was that this neighbourhood was so far outside the realm of the people I’d been hired to talk to that I’d never be seen or connected to this place. If I was caught outside the front of the hotel, it would have been over. Maybe I could have faked that I was looking to steal something.

I caught a cab to the warzone.

Hell street. Every city has one. The place where capitalism meets the cold hard truth. You could still buy a working VCR here for two dollars. Bartering was the most common form of payment, haggling was the most common price tag, and services were traded in lieu of assets. No government stamps, no visa trails, and no mercy. A person would never come here without knowing what he or she was doing and if they did, they’d go missing. Their IDs and cards would show up in a collage around crime scenes and fraud cases later.

It was the kind of intersection that would sprout corpses if high-quality drugs came anywhere near it. The doses of the stepped-on garbage that the addicts here were used to had to be huge just to get a semblance of a high. It was a slave market and the best bargains allowed themselves to be humiliated or beaten for spare change. The hookers down here were a combination of Picasso and Pollock from the beatings.

Lost at sea, all of them. Pirates stranded in port. The only true friends I’ve ever had. You knew where you stood with these people. Every single one of them was insane with grief or need and they were all horrible liars. If they said they were going to kill you, an attempt would be made. If they said they’d let you break their arm for five dollars, they’d let you. It was refreshing to be amongst this type of honesty after my meeting in the boardroom that brought me here.

I found a pimp there and gave him the key to my hotel room. His mouth twitched around an archipelago of sores. He could have girls working out of the room all week if he was discreet. Only his best-looking workers. He might have to pull in favours. He could get a thousand dollars a trick in that hotel. Put the word out, place an ad. The angles were there.

He was grateful. I got information. I guess the room was useful after all.

The hunt was on. My employers would have their mark by the end of Wednesday.




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