by Kathya Alexander
Several years ago — who knows how many; it’s been a long time ago now — a bald white man parked his very nice car across the street from my house in the Central District (CD). Our duplex kinda shares a parking lot with a Seattle middle school at a dead-end kinda cul de sac. Unlike most of the CD, my block’s not quite gentrified yet. On my short street, we got two old Black women, a Mexican family, and a white-looking Muslim guy. Sounds Black, so I ain’t sure. Nice neighborhood. Nice people. That Seattle kinda nice, where people speak and smile when they’re out walking their dogs but they ain’t all up in your business. Then I noticed that the car hadn’t moved for a while. Eventually, I realized that Bald White Man was living in his car. Then, sometime later, I figured out he was probably selling drugs, too. ʼCause I know the signs: A lot of people coming and going for short little visits to his car.
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