When I first entered the city of Baltimore I fell in love with the potential for creativity the ancient bricks and cobblestones might give me when I finally wrote about them. A swirling mass of nationalities built this town. Greek, Italian, African, Polish, English, Asian, a list too long to enumerate.

In the early years they built warehouses, shops and homes in neat rows. Brick fronts undulating along cobblestone streets, all following the contours of the land that sloped down to the harbor. Great ships brought lifeblood to the docks with scores of goods from a far-flung empire of commerce around the world.

A nation needed building, and this is where it all began. Steel mills poured out rails and a railroad was built, the foundries churned out the plates of raw material that were hammered and riveted into ships for the mighty fleets that sailed the great ocean beyond the Chesapeake Bay.

Times were good, babies were born, and lives were sanctified by the sweat and toil of a hundred thousand strong backs turned to hard labor. It wasn't hard to imagine the city booming with energy and prosperity. So when did it happen, when did it all start to go wrong?

The wealth had oozed out of the city, leaving behind a numbing poverty in far flung neighborhoods surrounding the business center. Those who could afford it moved north to the suburbs. Towson seemed to be the last vestige of middle class life inside the beltway.

The west side was dubbed Pig Town, the stockyards and railroads all but gobbled up the available space until they too failed. Cockeysville was formed on the western barrier, a town with historical significance from the Civil War.

Going south would only take you so far as the great Chesapeake Bay formed a natural barrier. Ft. McHenry stood before the southern gateway to the city, guarding the Inner Harbor as it had done for three centuries. The British found that out in the War of 1812. So that leaves east and it was there that the industry of the city took over.

Dundalk, the town built on land the dockyards didn't want. An area of vast asphalt covered fields filled with foreign cars just off the boat. Wetlands and water channels divided up the land and hemmed it in. Baltimore city appeared trapped, and yet these are the neighborhoods and boroughs that give the city its distinct flavor. I wanted to taste them all.

I drove the streets for weeks before I began to catch a glimmer, a nuance of an answer to that question nagging at my thoughts. How in the hell could I ever learn about these people? I would never be one of them; I could never know the reality of their lives just by watching. So I began to toil with them, eat with them and eventually live with them.

There was a grim happiness that pervaded life around me, and I joined in wholeheartedly. The first time a waitress at the White Castle up in Highlandtown called me 'Hun,' I almost laughed with glee. She was so real, so honest, so much a part of these streets that I yearned to know. But she was only a start. There were miles to go before I could say I knew this city and its occupants.

I met David six months after coming to town. His life and the sad richness of it are in these pages. He was sitting on the grass in Patterson Park at the base of a large oak tree, sketchpad in hand and a frozen look of anticipation on his face. I stopped in the walkway, afraid to intrude on his private moment, and he felt my presence.

"Ya gonna stand there all day?" He asked

"No, I didn't want to disturb you," I replied.

"I'm already disturbed, the whole fuckin place is disturbed, man," He laughed. "The VA says I might even be certifiable, ain't that killer?"

I now recognized the pattern of his life, the olive drab field jacket; the long blonde hair and his age all gave him away.

"You're a Vietnam vet."

"Best place in the world to go crazy, wait…it's about to happen," He said.

I looked out across the grass towards the muddy duck pond lying at the bottom of the gentle slope. A woman was approaching with her little dog, a very little dog indeed. The walkway led by the fence, very close to the water and the feeding birds. I anticipated the moment just like David, for we both knew what was about to happen.

The dog leapt towards the chain link fence and barked, if that's what you could call the shrill yapping sound it made. The ducks spread their wings and took flight, soaring gracefully out across the water and into the afternoon sky.

I turned to find David sketching furiously, reaching with his mind's eye to capture the moment of explosive energy when the birds took wing. His hands flew across the paper, the lines pouring forth and coalescing in shapes and forms I could not yet understand. I went to stand behind him and he paused.

"Never behind me, dude...never behind me," He said.

I complied, sitting myself on the ground a few feet away, wondering what entered his mind when someone stood back behind his line of sight. We sat together in the grass as he touched up his drawing, never in need of an eraser, his strokes strong and sure. Finally he sat back and sighed, placing the pad across his knees face down.

"I've been waiting for that moment for weeks," He said, smiling over at me. "And I suppose you want to see it now, don't you?"

"If it would be all right with you? Sure," I replied.

"Got two dollars?" He asked, "I need some smokes."

"OK, it's worth it," And I forked over the cash.

I'm not sure what I expected to see, it certainly wasn't what he revealed. Soft lines converged on the still body of water. The fence in perfect proportion ran away to the edge of the page. He had captured three birds in the perfect harmony of flight, wings spread and feathers biting into the breeze to gain swift altitude. I was stunned, this was magnificent. He was a gifted artist, a real genius.

"So was it worth two bucks?" He asked.

"I'd have given you more; I didn't know you were that talented. The drawing is wonderful."

"Yeah, guess I am pretty good. But I like doin people better," He said

"I like people too, I write about them. How long have you been drawing?" I asked.

"It's all I brought with me from my other life," He replied, "Walk with me, I need a smoke."

We went down to the corner store where the wizened little oriental man behind the counter gave him a hard look. There was no trust between them. I followed him up the street and around the corner to the mouth of a small alley.

"Are you really interested in my drawings?" He asked.

"If that means there are more you want to show me, yes. I love your work," I said.

We went through a small gate between two houses and up a back staircase to the second floor. I followed him down a narrow hallway to his room…a double bed, a dresser, a simple desk. These were his only possessions…except for his art.

I found myself staring in awe at the walls covered with his drawings. Sketches of boys standing on the street corners, sitting on a bench, laying on what I knew was his bed. Some were clothed, but most were nude. The smooth curves of boyish bodies surrounded me from every angle. It was hard not to stare, the shapes were very graphic.

"Guess you know about me now," David said.

"No…I don't," I mumbled, "But I wish I did." My eye was caught by a large sketch, a group of boys sitting on some steps. The detail was stunning, the curve of the cast iron railings, the laces of their shoes, the wry expressions on each face, all frozen in time.

"I made that from an old photo," David said when he noticed my interest. "Here, this is the picture."

The tiny piece of glossy paper he handed me couldn't have been more than four inches square. It was old and faded, yet the drawing he'd made was so rich in detail. How could he see that much in this picture?

"I'm the little guy on the top step, see...I even had long hair back then," David said.

"That's you, yeah, it does look like you. Who are the other four boys?" I asked.

"We were kind of a club. Just a stupid bunch of kids hanging out at the Park every day. Three of us went to Nam. I'm the one who came back. But Fred is a bricklayer up in Towson, I think. The other kid's name is John; he's in prison for murder."

"Oh man, this is history," I said.

"Yeah," David said, "We're all history. Look, I'll tell you more if you feed me, but maybe you don't want to know, it's not very nice."

"I can only imagine what life was like for you growing up around here. The drawings tell me you might be gay. Or at least into boys...whatever. But I need to know more, I want to know it all. I need your eyes, David, I want to see the things you've seen and write about them."

"Hmm, well, maybe," David said, "I got a million stories about this neighborhood, it might take a while."

"How many dinners can you eat?" I asked.

"Now you're talkin," He smiled. "You know I was a hustler when I was a kid."

"No, really, and what made you give it up?" I laughed.

"Yeah, you got me there. I still do it occasionally, you know, to eat. I used to think I was only doin it for the money, but now I know I'm gay so it ain't so weird."

"Then what is weird to you?" I asked.

"Watching your buddies die. Walkin through a hail of bullets without getting touched, blowin a major's cock in the back of his jeep, fuckin a Cong and then slitting his throat… now that's weird."

"Sorry I asked," I said.

"Apology accepted," David said. "Let's eat."

Maybe I couldn't understand what it was like to be on the verge, the very edge of life as David saw it. Months later he was done telling his tales, and had introduced me to everyone he knew so that I could continue my research. He seemed to understand that his part in creating this story was over and checked himself into the Veteran's Hospital up at Perry Point east of the city.

I was so very sick of all I had learned and put my notes away in a box, vowing to move on. After all, a writer isn't supposed to assault his readers, is he? The knowledge David gave me was just that, an assault on my senses. But with time came the need to share these stories with you.

Truth is stranger than fiction; I know you've all heard that expression. I've changed little in the accounts David gave me of life on the street. I've used his knowledge and woven it in with my personal experiences. The story is fictional; the threads used to weave this tapestry are not. I have dated the chapters only to give the readers a reference in the lives of these characters.

If I have done my job well then you won't know which of us tells the story, for I don't think either David or I would lay claim to the events. The usual disclaimers apply: this is something only an adult should read; there is violence, drug use and sexual depiction in the pages ahead. But there is also truth, and I hope those who read this learn something from it.

Chris James, 2009



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Whistler's Club is © 2009 by Chris James.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.


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