Commingled scents of soured vomit and ether lingered as the teenage girl staggered away. Drunk and/or stoned, draped in a tattered-rag garb, the waif’s blend of grey and alabaster-white skin stretched tight against her skull. Aimlessly wandering off, she glanced back with her gut wrenching, hollow-eyed sadness, then vanished between the graffitied buildings.   
 
Grass glazed shiny red beneath the wooden slats. I raised my sticky fingers from the park bench to my nose. A distinct whiff of blood—minerally, and metallic.
 
A spotted dog crouched to do his business beside a tree. Squirrels scampered. Birds sang. And the creeping sun flashed between branches to showcase glistening leaves covered in early-morning dew.
 
The city park, a children’s playground, seemingly so peaceful. But scattered liquor bottles, beer cans, and clusters of drug paraphernalia, littered conflicting signs of the previous evening’s disparaging events.
 
Senseless violence, ruthless cruelty, and disregard for human decency. Shootings, stabbings, robberies, and drug deals gone bad. Lost innocence. Rapes in the bushes. And a fourth Sunday night murder.
 
Serene most mornings, but a warzone of madness after dark. Scattered remnants tell horror stories that lying eyes fail or refuse to see or admit.
 
Streetwise youths running wild, seeking recognition from idolized thugs sporting Beemer’s, Mercedes, or Escalades with 22” rims, and wearing gaudy agglomerations of sparkling neck and wrist bling.
 
Kids living lost. “Out of sight—Out of mind,” ignored or forgotten. Parents, school, and city officials constantly plead for help, change, and hope. Themselves befuddled and sidetracked, fighting losing battles against their own hidden demons and addictions.

 
*****

First one up, Ghalen sat eating an overload of sugary goodness: pop-tarts, and a bowl of cereal. The house quiet. His mother’s and Auntie Shontel’s bed empty, though the club had been closed for hours.
 
His little sister walked up rubbing her eyes and yawning, then climbed into his lap with an affectionate hug and asked, “Where’s mama?”
 
“I don’t know, Laila. Must’ve stayed the night with a friend.” Probably found some hookup, Ghalen thought, but would never have said. “Hey, want some grub? Lucky Charms or something?” Laila nodded yes, climbed down and into her own chair.
 
After Ghalen put his bowl in the sink, he set Laila’s breakfast on the table, and said, “Okay, hurry up girl . . . gotta get you dressed for school.”
 
Tap, tap, someone knocked on the front door. Ghalen hurried over, opened it, and found his down peckerwood from school, Boonie Burns: snow-white, straw-textured carrot-top hair, freckled face, and his “Down on the farm” country twang.
 
Then, right behind Boonie, DeShawn Jackson’s toothy grin peeked around his broad shoulder, and said, “S’up dawg,” flipping a peace sign . . . and then, a bird.
 
Ghalen, most of the time, called G for short, frowned, never happy to see DJ, short for DeShawn Jackson, the mocha-latte trash-talking macho mouth.
 
DeShawn always snapping or badmouthing some pancake-chested wack Debbie up the road. Piercing-dagger eyes, ready to go upside yo’ head wit-da pipe on anyone layin’ attitude.
 
Jowly Boonie, grizzled with muscle, a lame-duck mother who just wanted to be accepted somewhere . . . anywhere. DJ’s dirty-grunt whipping boy who would slide in and out between cars from corner to corner, drivers never knowing where he might pop out in the road. A good tactic to avoid the Barneys.
 
His regular buyers' cars would creep down the street, waiting for him to magically appear from out of nowhere and peck on a window. Boonie sold ecstasy, meth, crack, smack, or would rip-off the unsuspecting with soap shavings.
 
Boonie and DJ weren’t typical friends for strait-laced Ghalen, but having grown up together since kindergarten, their friendship and downtown connections kept gangbangers at bay.
 
A 4.0 student, whose 5’5” 250-pound fire-hydrant physique had transformed over three years into a 6’2” 210-pound lanky Brennen-type. A hoops superstar with hops, Ghalen didn’t get dissed when he kept his crew close.
 
Ghalen helped Laila get dressed, gathered up the homework he had helped her finish the previous night and put it in her backpack. They hurried out the door, down the apartment steps, out on the sidewalk, and walked toward Laila’s bus stop.
 
 
 
*****

I still sat on the sticky park bench where I had been since before sunrise. The desolate park from early on had slowly become suffused with an ever-growing influx of walkers. Parents, mostly mothers, who walked hand in hand with toddlers and kindergarteners on their way to daycare or the sitters.

Elementary aged children lugged, seemingly, heavy backpacks on their shoulders, traveling mainly in groups. All but a few straggling loners with ear pods and headphones.
 
The once silent streets buzzed with traffic, horns beeped, and a car stereo blared. The early morning air, so clean and fresh but an hour ago, was already tainted by petroleum fumes, yet slightly sweetened by tantalizing scents from a nearby bakery.
 
As the fog burned off, things became more conspicuous. I could see an old man who had been hidden all along underneath a row of bushes.

He lay wrapped in dingy blankets, a floppy-hat scrunched down on his head. His dirty, darkened face barely visible, all but the bright whites of his eyes that stared at me. Frozen like an expressionless mannequin, he never moved, eyes boring into mine. I wondered if he sensed the pity, I felt for him.
 
I watched as the man-sized boy (who I later learned to be Ghalen) and the little girl (his sister, Laila) left the apartment and headed up the street. Two dudes followed close behind, one black (DJ), the other white (Boonie).

Ghalen and six-year-old Laila shared loving hugs before she walked up the steps of the bus. At the top, she stopped and blew him a kiss. He blew her kisses in a flurry with both hands. Then, as the bus pulled away, they smiled and waved madly.     
 
Once Laila’s bus drove out of sight, the high schoolers joked and jabbed crossing the street, headed to school, on the way through the park. As they neared the opposite sidewalk, a reeved motor and squealing tires caused them to stop and turn sharply. Pistols flared from the windows.
 
Pop, pop, pop! Three shots rang out.
Ironic that "Ghalen" means tranquil; the moment was anything but. A crumpled heap, Ghalen lay twisted in a crimson puddle on the sidewalk, drawing a crowd.
 
His young mother, on her way home, saw her son’s gory murder. She ran wailing in agony. Blinded by a deluge of tears she collapsed to her knees on the concrete.  
 
Friends and family came running from out-of-nowhere and flocked together in a sea of onlookers. They cried and hugged, desperate for any sense of comfort. A relief that would never come.
 
Sirens roared, racing nearer. Paramedics arrived too late. Ghalen was dead.
 
Another mindless killing. And for what: a dime bag or an ongoing territorial battle that will never end. This time, they had shot an innocent 14-year-old boy with no stake in the game.

Laila’s big brother, idol, mentor, and tutor, the only true constant in her life, gone forever. She will wait and hope, afraid and alone, coming home every day to a house filled with emptiness. Ghalen’s loving heart is now Laila’s missing example. Her teacher of right, wrong, and ways of the world. Nevermore to lookout for her innocence and keep her safe. She is left to learn from her own mistakes, and the impressions made upon her by others without guidance. And the vicious cycle continues.   
 
When we think of violence on the streets and in our neighborhoods, we think of Compton in Los Angeles, Chicago, East St. Louis, Miami, Detroit, etc. But in 2011, the Over-the-Rhine and Avondale areas of Cincinnati, Ohio, known as Nasty Nati or Cin City, was named the most dangerous city in the United States. Where on August 16th, 2020, just after midnight near Grant Park, at least 19 people were shot, and four announced dead in a single outburst of violence.

And on any night, it can happen where you live.



Word meanings:

Barneys - Cops
Bling – Expensive, ostentatious clothing and jewelry.
Club – Nightclub
Hookup – A casual sexual encounter.
Grub – Food
Peckerwood – A down white boy (prison term).
Down – To be with it or in the know.
Dawg – Homie, homeboy, friend.
S’up – Extreme contraction of “What is up.”
Mocha-latte – mixed race.
Trash-talking – person who throws insults or talks trash.
Snapping – Throwing slurs at someone, texting or snap chatting.
Badmouthing – To criticize or disparage, often spitefully or unfairly.
Bird – The middle finger
Pancake-chested – flat chested.
Wack – Something that really sucks. Someone who is crazy.
Debbie – black girl trying to be white.
Go upside yo’ head – bust someone upside the head. Beat someone badly.
Layin’ attitude – showing an attitude toward someone.
Jowly – double chinned.
Grizzled – bigger and stronger.
Lame-duck mother – mean’s one that is weak or who falls behind in ability or achievement.
Whipping boy – someone who takes the blame for another’s screwups.
Grunt – low-ranking or unskilled worker.
Gangbangers – a member of a criminal gang, especially one involved in violence.
Brennan-type – All the makings of the perfect man.
Hoops – basketball.
Hops – able to jump high vertically.
Dissed – someone disrespecting you.
Dime bag - $10 bag of dope.
Territory – block, neighborhood, city.
Rip-off – steal from or sell fake merchandize.

(I apologize if I left words out.)