You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

DRUGS IN THE HOOD

This essay presents four stories illustrating how the presents of a drug house changes the daily life in a neighborhood.

HIS MOTHER’S HOUSE

In 1991 I lived in Portland Oregon on North Mississippi Ave. Across the alley behind my house was a drug house. I was told that the house was owned by an elderly African American woman, and that her son had returned to the hood after serving a prison term for dealing drugs. He had moved into his mother’s home, confined her to a bedroom and used the front room for his illicit drug operations.

My second story bedroom faced the back porch of this drug house. One night I was awakened by the voices of two men on that back porch. I opened my eyes to see, a laser beam tracing around the walls of my bedroom. I imagined it to be a lazer gun sight. I lay flat in bed, out of sight of the porch, hoping that they were just flashing it around in many directions, but it continued following a repeated path across my bedroom walls as if enticing me to look out the window. I needed to get out of that room unseen. Staying low and out of sight of anyone on that porch, I rolled out of bed and crawled out of my bedroom.

While that scary event was one direct encounter with the drug dealers, it was not the way that the drug house influenced my life. The more common occurrence was with people seeking a little more cash to score pills for a $20 high. The drug dealers were not the only criminals that I encountered in the hood.

TWELVE DOLLAR BIKE

On one occasion a man came to my door with a sad story: “Would you please lend me twelve dollars until this afternoon. I need to buy milk for my baby child and a few things for his wife’s breakfast. My uncle is coming this afternoon to take us shopping. He will give me the money to pay you back.” As we talked, I noticed a mountain bike next to the steps leading up to my house. I asked, “Is that your mountain bike”. He answered that it was, I said “OK I will lend you $12 but you must leave your bike as collateral until this afternoon when you return the $12. He appeared to be confused at this turn of events. If he said forget it, it would demonstrate that he was trying to con me. But if I held his bike he would have to come back with Twelve dollars to recover his bike. He agreed. I gave him $12 and took possession of the bike. After a week, convinced he would not return for it, I called the police to see if the bike had been reported as stolen. An officer came to look at the bike and said that It had not been reported. A couple of months later Leonard said “ A man came into the store and told me that you have his bike. He wants it back.” I told Leonard about how I came to have it and that if that man comes back you tell him that I agreed to give it back if he returned my $12 the same afternoon. I have stored it for two months and now he must pay $12 storage fee in addition to the $12 he owes me. $24 and he can have his bike.” The man never returned. I gave the bike to a neighbor.

OUT OF GAS

“Good morning.” I said to the woman who had knocked on my door. “My car ran out of gas. I left my children in the car. It is in the next block up Mississippi.” I need ten dollars to buy gas to get my babies home.” I noticed that she had a neatly rolled Sunday Oregonian under her arm. I assumed that she had visited another house before mine. “Ah! You are in luck” I told her, and saw her glum expression brighten. “I happen to have a gallon of gas here which I will give to you.” Now she looked confused as she cautiously said “Oh thanks.” I went to my back porch and returned with a one gallon gas can. She held out her hand to take the can. I pulled it back saying. “I will give you the gas but not the can. We can walk to your car.” “Oh you don’t need to do that. I will return your can.” “It is a sunny Sunday morning. I could use a walk.” I replied.

As we approached the end of the first block she said. “Oh it is a couple of blocks farther. And my friend who lives in an apartment across the street has taken my kids to her house for safe keeping.” I knew of no apartment on that side of the street for several blocks. I asked “Exactly how far is it to your car?” “Oh it’s in the next block.” After we had walked a short distance into the next block she abruptly stopped and exclaimed. “OH MY GOD SOMEONE HAS STOLEN MY CAR!” “In that case you won’t be needing any gas.” I said as I turned, gas can in hand, and walked back home.

“QUICK! LET ME IN.”

I was awakened at two AM by loud and seemingly urgent pounding on my front door. I jumped out of bed and ran down stairs. She must have heard me come down the stairs. It was dark in the house and on the front porch where she stood. She was pleading “Help! He’s after me, quick let me in.” Before unlocking the door, I flipped switch turning on the porch light to see an African American woman through the full glass window of my front door. Her pannicked expression quickly faded, as she looked through the glass door at the naked white man inside. After a moment’s pause she turned and said “He’s not opening the door. He’s naked.” I heard a gruff man’s voice saying something like “Bitch, you blew it.” He was just out of my view, next to my door. She turned and walked away from the door as she did a man stepped into my view. The two of them went down the stairs from my porch and paused at the bottom, arguing. While I couldn’t hear what was said, it was apparent that the man was upset that the woman had dropped the scam so quickly.

Had I opened the door, the man was poised to rush in and do something to eliminate me, so that they could freely find and steal what ever valuables I had in the house. Her shock at seeing a naked white man jarred her enough to drop the act and there by blow their carefully planned burglary. The lesson here is apparent, when encountering danger, it’s best to be naked.