At the metro, I don't take the escalator — too many pick-pockets. My feet crunch on the abandoned peanut shells, cigarette butts, and gnawed chicken bones littering the granite steps. A covey of young men loiter by the exit, voices excited, muscle tees framing black-inked tats. Absorbed in their furtive closed palm exchanges of rolled-up bills for baggies, they ignore me.
Outside, summer's swelter carries the usual market smells of over-ripe fruit, worn-out peanut oil, and stale urine. I walk quickly, breathing though my mouth. Around the corner I bypass a puddle of vomit and almost trip over the legs of a woman propped against the Market's brick wall. Sweat pours down her face; I fight the strong urge to yank off her puffy red parka. She stares at me, eyes filmy from glaucoma or some other affliction, but I walk past, averting my gaze to the crab grass pushing through broken concrete, the spent condoms, the empty vodka nips rolling at her stockinged feet.
Campus security patrols the intersection. We smile at each other, as we do every day, small reassuring grimaces. The ham and Swiss hangs heavy in my lunch bag like a bad conscience. The light changes. I hurry across to the air-conditioned safety of the hospital, to the day of running yesterday's numbers: admissions, discharges, dollars, death. But first, I stop for a latte, hoping to usher energy enough to feel the morning's sting.
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My offering for this week's 52/250 theme: we are not responsible
This is my walk to work. The people on the corners change, but not the futility.
The sweltering summer stench of Baltimore, as seen through your eyes, Linda, is poetic horror. Your description is so tactile, it reminds me of how repugnant I found Lexington Market, and at the same time could not stay away.
wow - quiet the olfactory assault..hope you made this up and it is really not your walk to work..
having lived near there for 4 years, this IS that walk. I'm with Olivia, you've captured its 'poetic horror' perfectly. And yet, why do I miss it so? *
It's the glory of your details that hold me on this walk. It is real. Love this piece, Linda.
Is that latte crack at the end a finger up in the face of the bottom ten percent of the first world? The drop outs? The spivs? The bums? No pity here, which makes this piece somewhat real.
lots of lovely, lyrical language here attached to a poetics of ruin & quiet despair
marc nash
Thank goodness we have writers like you who can't simply avert their gaze...and what Marc said.
Good piece, Linda. I like your approach to imagery and language: "The ham and Swiss hangs heavy in my lunch bag like a bad conscience. The light changes. I hurry across to the air-conditioned safety of the hospital, to the day of running yesterday's numbers: admissions, discharges, dollars, death."
Nice work.
It’s been years since I’ve been to Lexington Market. Used to go often with my parents when I was a child, 30 years ago.
Excellent descriptions here. You really put us there.
Olivia (!), thanks for reading; your comment captures perfectly the aura of Lex Market.
Michael, yes, this is my walk. 4 short city blocks. It keeps life real. Peace...
Julie, thanks for your comment and the fav -- much appreciated! The vendors, the smells, the vast array of foods -- wonderful. The underlying poverty, filth, drug use, and general despair of this segment of the city saddens me. Peace...
Meg, thanks so much! I'm always honored when you take a peek at my stuff.
Marc (!), fancy seeing you here -- thanks so much!
Lou,thank you for reading -- back at you for not averting gazes.
Sam, thank you -- I always appreciate it when you take time to read my words.
Peace...
Christian, I'll meet you any time you want for a Mary Mervis roast beef -- or what have you. Peace...
Eamon, thanks for reading my work -- I very much appreciate it. I'm not sure what to make of your comment, other than to say I think the pervasiveness of and inability to effect meaningful improvements in our society's problems make those of us who are more fortunate weary and sad. What does giving a sandwich to one person improve? Pulling off excess clothing (or providing more in cold weather)? Giving up the latte and donating the $4 to charity? Was the woman wrong to not do any of the above?
Dunno.
I'm glad my story provoked you -- these are the questions I hope everyone asks. Peace...
"We smile at each other, as we do every day, small reassuring grimaces. The ham and Swiss hangs heavy in my lunch bag like a bad conscience."
Like this a lot, Linda, especially that line. *
Kim, thanks so much for the read and fav. When I walk through the parking lot there, I always feel I have too much. Peace...
Linda, you've done it to me again! From word one I was mesmerized by the lilt and cadence and imagery of your work. thanks for this one. Fave.
Linda, that last paragraph is a masterpiece. Brilliant! And the sensory detail in the paragraphs leading up to that are nearly overwhelming. Great job.
Beautifully written, Linda. All the details are arresting, but I'm struck by the strength of your verbs. "crunch--loiter--bypass--yank." That's the secret of strong writing.
Dean, thanks for your enthusiastic fave - yippee!
Jack, your kind words on the last graph make me happy -- thanks! peace...
Bill, so you like my verbs, eh? Thank you. And for the fave. Means mucho coming from you. Peace...
have never been to your Lex market, but I can feel it and smell it. So sad. Much worse then I see when I go to Manhattan.
Great portrait of despair. I was especially drawn to the same line as Kim. I used to work in an afterschool program in the Iron Triangle neighborhood of Richmond, CA (a place that makes the roughest parts of Oakland look like Disneyland) and exchanged those "reassuring grimaces" with the bookmobile librarian, the coach, the tutors, etc. Very evocative, Linda. Painful in a way that is good.
Estelle, thank you for the read and fav -- much appreciated! I love that you can 'feel it and smell it'.
Jane, thanks also! Baltimore is a gritty city, at least the parts I see daily. Eight blocks away? Mansions. A city of contrasts. Peace...
Yep, Linda. Reading this again, loving it again -- esp the last line.
Thanks Michelle. I admit -- I always feel conflicted stopping in at Starbucks after passing a homeless person. Peace...