Long ropes of brightly colored flags hung from the rafters of the tall glass and steel building. Each little square of cloth fluttered rapidly, swimming in the current of cool air pouring down into the hall from the large overhead vents. Below, amidst the maze of manicured plants and flowers, a slender young boy in faded jeans and a dark T-shirt sat on the hard wooden slats of a bench.

His head was tilted back, allowing his long brown hair to dangle in the breeze of artificial air cascading down from above. He squinted, trying to count the flags above. Eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-eight, ninety-one, and he lost track of their numbers. Damn, there were hundreds of them up there, he thought, sooo ... pretty.

His head snapped forward as a blast of music interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to the reality of the moment. A sudden rush of dizziness shot through his body, and his stomach revolted. Oh shit, I'm gonna puke again, he thought. Then his eyes lost their focus.

"Are you alright, young man?" an elderly feminine voice asked. "You look terribly pale."

Joey tried to focus on the speaker but his mind was still floating out there somewhere, way too dizzy. The concerned woman finally caught a whiff of him, the cloying solvent smell of the tolly he'd huffed still clung to his face and clothes.

"Oh ... " she stammered, "that's disgusting. You should be ashamed, such a young boy. Martha, this boy is on drugs," she said to her companion.

"There's a policeman by the door," Martha said, and they both looked across the sea of heads towards a uniformed cop standing watch by the door.

They turned back towards the bench but Joey had vanished. The high school band in the courtyard continued the musical celebration as members of the city council and the mayor took their places on the speaking platform at one side. Polite applause greeted their arrival and the incident with the long haired boy was lost for all time.

Joey moved low and swiftly, dodging through clusters of seemingly wooden figures staring towards the podium. Men and women, families with children, all dressed in their Sunday-best filled the courtyard behind him. All had come to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Baltimore's Harbor Place, all except Joey.

The wondrous shops and restaurants had been clustered right on the waterfront in a grand design. The city center had been an eye sore for decades until politics and business had come up with this solution. And it had given new life to the blighted inner city...or had it?

The adrenaline rush had cleared his head, and with his eyes darting here and there, Joey was searching for an escape route. He worked his way past the vegetable and fish vendors, coffee and cookie counters, ignoring the tempting things out on display. He didn't even bother to look at the merchandise. He had no money to be coaxed from his pockets by wily clerks. This place wasn't part of his real world. It was only a cool oasis of fantasy on yet another hot day in his life.

Finally, he made it to an exit door at the rear of the building and slammed the panic bar, bursting out into the hot streaming sunshine. He took a brief glance over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed and ran smack into the side of a patrol car parked on the sidewalk. Shit ... I'm busted sure, he thought. Joey gazed in glassy eyed horror at the uniform sitting inside.

"Hey, kid," the cop yelled through the open window. "What the hell you doing in there?"

"Nothin," Joey smiled, a disarming grin he reserved for authoritative adults

"Get lost, OK?" the cop replied. "You better get yourself back home, you don't belong here today."

Joey walked casually away, stuffing the remains of the plastic bread bag deeper in the back pocket of his faded jeans. The bag reeked of the toluene paint thinner he had been huffing, 'tolly' they called it. Inhaling the fumes gave you a head rush but the results often made you puke. He didn't care, it was free and today it was the only high he could afford. But it had made him throw up twice already and he hated that part.

Now it was time to move, to vanish like a ninja in the canyons of the city. This had been Joey's favorite game for as long as he could remember. That cop had easily pegged him as an East Side kid, off his territory and that usually meant trouble. Joey didn't hate all cops, but then what did that cop know about his life anyway? A good ninja was always part of the unknown.

He wandered around the side of a building and the sound of the brass band blared out from the plaza beyond. Crappy music, why didn't they have a rock band? To avoid the well dressed crowds, he crossed the street and walked a block into the city away from the harbor.

Here the familiar office buildings towered above him, like old friends they welcomed him back and he felt secure. But these friends were getting old and dirty, and when he ran his hand along the stones it came away black with soot. He rubbed the dirty fingers on his jeans, adding to the streaks already there.

He passed behind the Chinese restaurant with its awesome smells and turned down the nearby alley. The loading dock at the back of the hotel had some interesting looking things on it, but maybe he should come back later if he found the time.

Joey gave a spinning kick to a pile of empty cardboard boxes, watching them crumble under his assault. It was getting late, time to go home. Reluctantly he turned east and back towards the harbor.

At the Federal Courthouse he stood waiting at the traffic light under the watchful gaze of the uniformed guard. He crossed the street towards the waterfront where he looked towards the distant pier and the huge wooden ship moored there amidst the crowd. The U.S.S. Constitution, it was famous for something. That was all he remembered about it from school. Joey wasn't in school anymore.

Across the murky swell of the harbor he could see water taxis running in and out of the boats anchored at the long stone jetty. There sat another sailing ship, The Pride of Baltimore. He knew about that one, it had been built right before his eyes. He loved the tall masts, so high that they towered above the bustling harbor craft below.

It was all so pretty now, but these things didn't really touch his life. Instead they existed in a dream place somewhere in his mind. How could he relate to them? This place and these people certainly didn't recognize him as anything. These were just things, things that served to amuse.

Suddenly he remembered about today again. Today was his birthday, today he was twelve. But today nothing had changed. Tomorrow would be filled with the same doubts and fears, concepts he barely recognized anymore.

The recently developed Inner Harbor complex stopped abruptly several blocks east at the walls of the power plant, quickly giving way to a more familiar city. The rotten piers of defunct industry had been left jutting out into the filthy water, which only recently had received the city's attention. Joey walked along the water's edge, balancing on the seawall and throwing small rocks at pieces of junk that still floated in the murky harbor.

The buildings were much older here. Crumbled brick warehouses, all boarded up to prevent junkies from stealing the copper pipes and fencing them for another fix. Stacks of wooden pallets from the old cannery lay broken in an open field. The hard soil packed by decades of industry hid the corrupted earth fouled by toxic chemicals.

The tall stacks from the old power plant towered to his left. A handsome brick building that had been given a facelift but never seemed to be able to get a life. These things didn't affect Joey's senses until the smells of a summer afternoon in Little Italy drifted his way. The odor of baked bread, garlic and sweet spices from the gaggle of trendy restaurants made Joey's stomach rumble. He was hungry, he was always hungry.

Out across this leg of the harbor he could see the sugar plant to the south. The huge neon sign over the building raped the city skyline at night with a splash of blue and white light. Joey walked across a sea of crinkled asphalt, his worn tennis shoes surrounded by the glitter of a thousand Saturday night's worth of broken beer bottles. All this had been left untouched for decades; a testament to the city's major problem. The certain poverty of so many citizens in this part of town had bred nothing but official contempt.

Joey eyed the deserted street across from the field as if at any moment trouble might come his way. The high-rise projects lay up that street. Horrible things happened to little white boys who went up there his momma had once told him. Stay out of there, you'll be sorry. Joey was always a little frightened when he came this way, but at least it wasn't close to dark.

Picking up the pace, he raced along the concrete sea wall, past the Coast Guard station where his path finally crossed an invisible line and he was back in East Side territory once again.

He ran across the vacant lot where they sometimes played stickball. Past piles of trash pushed against the foundry wall where they had found the dead man a year before. The guy had been rolled up in a rug, shot in the head and left to rot, the smell made them all puke.

Joey's eyes scanned the void below the concrete pier across the narrow channel of water but he could see no movement. Sometimes the bums and winos rolled out their cardboard slabs and slept under the pier. He hated their stink because they smelled like the dead man.

A younger boy he knew had been attacked by one of these creeps last summer. Some sick guy who said he just wanted to talk to the kid. The boy's parents and relatives had rousted the bums with boards and steel pipes swinging. But the man they wanted was gone. The injured bums went to the hospital up the hill courtesy of the police who managed to wait until the lesson had been learned. Men who then went to the corner bar to celebrate the victory or home to watch the evening news in hopes of hearing about their acts of bravery.

Joey climbed across the litter of old stamping machines rusting in the sun. Ancient hulks of mill processing equipment left behind when the factory moved out of the city. He stood atop a pile of twisted metal and looked down the length of the concrete pier. Victoriously he whistled, as if to announce, "I'm back".

The piercing call rolled across the field, echoing under the pier and bouncing from piling to piling. Threep-too-weep, his call sounded. The two fingers shoved in beside his tongue were grimy, but there was no answer. Threep-too-weep, he cast out again, but he heard only silence in return. No one was there so he ducked under the pier and ran the length to the far end, a hundred yards out into the harbor.

Filthy piles of discarded cardboard and newspaper were cast about the place, broken wine bottles, bits of clothing and empty rusting food cans littered the walls. He inspected a piece of cardboard for skid marks or moving bugs. It was fairly clean so he dropped it on the concrete retaining wall and sat down.

The bread bag was a hard lump in his pocket, the plastic melted in contact with the harsh chemical. He pulled it out, wadded the bag and tossed it in the water, watching it float slowly away and sink in the muddy scum that bounced amongst the pilings below.

Across the water the afternoon sky was beginning to darken, clouds building up way back in the outer harbor and even further out towards the Chesapeake Bay. There'd been a thunderstorm almost every day this past week. He didn't look forward to the coming days of August when it would be real hot. A sweaty, humid, garbage smelling hot, with hardly a breeze to cool your brain. Damn he hated that.

He watched as the wind picked up, blowing white caps across the water rolling towards him and dying against the concrete wall below his feet. The storm would be here soon, probably before he could make it back to the house. At least this place was dry enough. He would have to wait it out.

Lightning flashed across the sky and he counted. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, and three-one thousand, then the distant rumble of thunder reached his ears. The storm was still miles out over the Bay but rushing towards him fast.

He thought about all the little boats he had seen down in Annapolis when he was eight. Joey had begged his father to take them over the Bay Bridge to the Eastern Shore. It cost money to drive down there and cross over, he'd been told, maybe another time. Joey had come up with the dollar and a half for the toll. And reluctantly his father had driven them up and then out onto the soaring span of the Bay Bridge.

It was a million miles high over the water they all thought. The sailboats looked so tiny down below. His father had laughed, seeming to finally enjoy the outing. He had told them it had to be high to let the big ships pass under. Joey knew that, he'd seen those same ships moored at the docks down Dundalk way.

The sun had shown brightly across the water that day and Joey could see the glorious bay for miles in either direction. It was his favorite memory, one of his very few where his father was concerned. The man had abandoned his family six months later.

The thoughts of that warm sunny day made him shiver in his thin T-shirt as the breeze turned cool. Damn, he hoped he wouldn't catch cold. How stupid, he had forgotten to snag a jacket. No, that wasn't quite true. The latest quarrel with his mother had driven him from the house without a chance to retrieve a jacket. Shit, what a bitch, he hated the fighting.

Large scattered drops of rain began to pound the water. He could see the storm front more clearly now, the squall line approaching rapidly up the harbor towards him. Joey moved back from the edge as lightning flashed overhead and the roll of thunder answered almost immediately. The rain created a mist that blocked his vision of the distant South Side and the big Domino Sugar sign. It all vanished in a curtain of water and he was happy to see it go.

Flash, ka-boom. The lightning struck nearby and scared him. Shit, now he didn't want to be out here at all. Wheep-thweep, he heard distantly through the roar of falling water. Robby was coming. Wheep-thweep he heard again and joyously he flung the answering call. Threep-too-weep. The connection was made.

Robby hurled his way through the field, dodging piles of trash with great ability and came running like hell under the pier. His long blonde hair was plastered to his face, his wet shirt and jeans clung to his pre-adolescent frame, revealing a muscular body transforming itself into manhood.

"Shit, damn, hell, I'm soaked," Robby yelled as he ran to the end of the pier, tucking a soggy paper bag under his arm, "Fuck, why me?"

"Man, I thought I was gonna have to wait out this whole storm down here by myself," Joey replied.

"Shit, hope my butts didn't get wet," Robby said as he dug for the pack of Marlboros in his shirt pocket. Joey never spent money on cigarettes so Robby immediately offered the crumbled pack. They sat against the graffiti covered wall and each lit a smoke.

"What's in the bag?" Joey asked.

"Oh yeah, Happy Birthday," Robby said, "I bought you a present. Sorry, it's probably a little wet."

Wet or not Joey was grateful for the warmth as he pulled the dark blue sweatshirt over his head. His fingers caressed the printed picture of Bruce Lee on the front. It figured Robby would remember it was his birthday, nobody else had. That's what had set him off this morning, sent him down to the basement with the bread bag for the tolly. But then Robby would always remember his birthday. It was the day they had first met two long years ago.

"Awesome, thanks. Bruce is my favorite."

"Yeah, I know," Robby replied. "I was up at Northpoint Mall last night, and I thought you might like that."

The boy was always buying him things. Even though Robby was only ten years old, he always seemed to have money. Robby's dad was a painter at the shipyard down Dundalk way. The wages were good in this year when there were so many unemployed walking the streets. Joey hadn't seen his father in almost three years. He barely remembered the man's face.

Their worlds had collided when Robby's family moved into the city's eastern neighborhood known as Canton. The boy hadn't been there more than a week when the local toughs shook him down for whatever cash he might have in the pocket of his jeans. Joey heard the fight in the alley and decided that three against one wasn't fair odds so he put a stop to it.

Through his swollen left eye Robby watched as this tall slender, dark-haired boy took apart the three young toughs in a flurry of hands and feet. Joey's defense looked awesome, better than it actually was, but Robby had no way of knowing that his savior wasn't a famous kick boxer.

The attackers didn't stick around to meet the challenge, but they managed to run off with Robby's money. Joey soon found the new kid likable, and for his part Robby proved a stalwart companion.

Joey was still admiring the decal picture of his hero. Bruce was the best fighter in the world. It didn't matter that Lee was dead and the fights on film more fantasy than fact, Joey had seen every one of his movies several times. He grinned at his friend.

"Awesome, this is so cool," Joey said.

Robby blushed at the praise, basking in the glory. He knew Joey had a tougher life, but despite their differences the friendship was solid. He adored the boy.

"Uh, what happened this time?" Robby asked. His version of life had always required things to happen for a reason.

"Mom gave me a load of shit, said I ain't getting no birthday outta her ... what a bitch."

"I don't understand her."

"Trust me, no one does. Ever since my dad left ... " There was no way Joey was going into details.

"Are you going to the park tonight?" Robby asked, changing the subject.

"Not sure, it might be too wet to hang around," Joey replied. "Why, you want to hang out?"

"Dunno, maybe?" Robby said, wringing the water from his hair.

Patterson Park was a vast swath of green that had dominated the East Side of the city ever since a horse and carriage was the best form of transportation around town. The area was a bustling center of commerce then, and the newly established working classes lived there close to the harbor. Up on the hill above the park lived the wealthier residents, a place to catch the cool breeze off the water below.

But as the fortunes of the city changed so did the neighborhood. Now, nearly three hundred years after the first cotton and tobacco barges landed along its shores, this part of the city was in a long downhill slide. And nowhere was it more evident than here on the streets where Joey and Robby lived.

Each succeeding generation would have their own reasons for the decline. If you asked Joey he would have told you it was because they integrated the schools and the whites found themselves surrounded and outnumbered by the blacks. Harassment and fear of the unknown all led to the growing animosity between mere children. Kids who should have been pushing back the despair of the city instead of allowing it to crush them.

For generations they had grown up living only blocks from one another, and yet they were worlds apart. The blame was always with the other guy, and somehow they were both at fault. And when civil rights finally came here to this little corner of the city, Joey solved the problem in the usual fashion, he walked away from school, and so did many of his friends. But that was back in fourth grade, or was it third?

"You gonna see the Wheelers any time soon?" Robby asked.

"Maybe, why do you want to know?"

"Just thought I might get us some weed, that's all," Robby said.

"You're too young to be hanging out with that bunch," Joey said.

A boy named Jerry Wheeler dealt weed in the neighborhood. His family was notorious for their misdeeds, and there were seven boys in that household. Hustlers, thieves and no good con artists is what most folks knew of these boys. But despite their protestations, it was the neighborhood that kept them in business.

The whores and their pimps strutted down the avenue after dark, but even they disliked the Wheeler family. "Low life, drug dealing, motherfuckers," one whore called them, but she dealt with the Wheelers in the back alleys because they always had the best stuff.


On to Chapter Two

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"Whistler's Club" Copyright © 2010 by Chris James. All rights reserved.
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