i walk around downtown like everyone's in my fucking way.

mr. peoples

there were some objects etched into barre street. cracked pavement decorated with deep potholes, tall grass bursting from sidewalks, birthday balloon fragments hanging from ribbons tied to front gates, and faded stuffed animals marking last summer's homicide.

there's mr. peoples, too, whose name becomes more of a misnomer as he ages. mr. peoples is, too, an immovable object of barre street, and he don't like no one. with his first and last ounces of energy each day, mr. peoples wheels himself onto his front porch and observes the day's happeninings. he scowls, stares -- he's reticent. he wears one of three plaid shirts each day, along with his pants, shorn at the knees, and only waves to a few passersby (namely those who've been in the neighborhood as long as he).

mr. peoples, the legless general. even with terminal illnesses making their home in his withering body, he still demands the respect of a powerful overseer.

watch out.

sometimes, teenagers disrupt mr. peoples's landscape. their presence is pollution -- loud talking, blaring music, boisterous laughing, and wide-bodied cars. they make the residents of barre street stay in their homes and curse from behind closed doors. grandbabies can't play outside when there are transactions going on . . . money to be made.

i wish they'd go away.

the pollution doesn't know mr. peoples. they don't give a fuck about this being his street. they don't know how cooperative the community used to be. how block parties used to be the thing, how mr. peoples once walked door to door, handing out christmas gifts, how everyone greeted the jacksons when they arrived home with their first baby girl. so much has changed since then. now, everyone wants to get out . . . let someone else clean up this mess.

and one afternoon, that pollution drifted too close to mr. peoples as he sat as his post. and one teenager began to closely resemble his own son -- same eyes, scraggly beard, and bopping gait. the same son that's been squatting with mr. peoples for decades, not gainfully employed, refusing to help with any bills, telling people he's "taking care of pops". the same son who's no longer ashamed of his drug habit, using in the open, fueling the business that gives rise to more pollution on barre street.

"get the fuck outta here. get the fuck outta here 'fore i call the police."

the pollution chuckled because they'd never heard mr. peoples speak before. in fact, they'd never known he was a real person since the object sitting on the porch never moved. but they saw the seriousness in his face and heard the ire in his tone. they continued to chuckle, but did so moving away from mr. peoples's front porch.

"aight, old man."

and as days passed, the pollution gradually moved down barre street until the wind carried them to another location. barre street was itself once again. the once lively, but now forgotten corridor, adorned with markers of today's climate.

there, mr. peoples sits, the legless general with the watchful eye.

oh god

i just watered the plants in my office window. unbeknownst to me, however, there was stagnant water sitting in the base of one plant's pot. when the fresh water ran through the soil, the bad water spilled over, dripping onto some of my contract files.

now my whole office smells like shit.

oh, and i had the most forgettable birthday ever. i guess that's what happens when you reach an age that means absolutely nothing. i mean, seriously, what's monumental about turning 27?

then, there was this one time . . .

when i faked an injury during one of my lanham boys & girls club football games.

my team was terrible -- the bad news bears of the league. our roster boasted a red neck, belligerent quarterback, a taciturn asian lineman, a rail then african wide receiver, and choppy-footed running back w/ a mullet. and then there was me, the talented, yet lazy speedster who'd been sentenced to playing left guard due to ditching practices for poor reasons such as headaches and bee stings. it was nearly the end of the season when my coach realized i was the fastest on the team. my first and only game carrying the ball, i got repeatedly blasted by the bladensburg defense -- a bunch of overweight fuckers w/ non-matching uniforms.

anyway, one afternoon, my team played new carrollton on their home field. knowing we'd be trounced as usual, i spent more time trying to find my dad in the stands than paying attention to the on-field calls. the team's running back was making fools of us, zipping from end zone to end zone as his helmet spun on his tiny skull. i still don't know how he managed to see in front of him.

after new carrollton scored their third touchdown, i was forced to pay attention, as a short kick bounced directly into my hands. i grabbed it and picked up good field position, dragging two opposing players a few yards before being taken down.

"get your head in the game!" their coach yelled. "he could have dragged you 10 more yards!"

as our offense took the field, i once again started paying attention to shit that had nothing to do with the game. i thought about how nice of a day it was, what homework i had to complete before monday, and if there was any leftover pizza in the house. i then began questioning why i was even on the field. why not enjoy this day on the sideline, i thought.

our quarterback mumbled something and we broke the huddle. he snapped the ball, and i took a couple steps backwards and did a sort of weird split and fell to the grass. for added emphasis, i rolled and moaned until i drew a reaction from the opposing team's players.

"daaaaaaaang!"

i lay on my back, motionless, until our entire coaching and my dad trotted onto the field. i wasn't expecting such an outpouring of attention, so i panicked and trumped up my injury even more, acting as if i couldn't move my legs. my dad and assistant coach ended up carrying me off the field. i let my neck go limp, too, when they sat me on the bench for evaluation.

it was hard keeping up the lie for the next couple days. did i fake an ankle sprain? knee hyperextension? spleen rupture? i had no idea. in fact, i had trouble remembering which leg to limp on when my parents were around. and, yes, i missed practice the following monday.

i told my mom this story some time last year and she said she knew i was faking. whatever. she sure didn't act like that when i was propped up w/ my feet elevated on the bench.