“Which Colors You Got Left?”

I always took my time doing the grocery shopping; sometimes, even stopping at the basketball court if I rode by and was challenged to a good game of 21. By now, I had the routine down pat enough to where I could probably hop on my stolen and re-painted Diamondback, close my eyes, and avoid all potholes, and hit any good ramps on the way to Pershing Market. A long gone, defunct grocer; now reformed and gentrified into open-air markets.

And foodstamps were embarrassing. The only ones that weren’t as embarrassed as myself, were the shoppers whose boyfriend waited outside in a Benz; or the lady in the lnyx coat, cigarette in hand, ready to stand outside, exhaling while waiting for a cab.

I hated it. Color-coded booklets, based on the demonination of “bills.” It was like Monopoly money that let you know you were really poor. Until I leaned how to flip the books.

“Baby, hey, baby — I really need some food at home;” she was older than me, but just a teenager. She took a hand and put it on her backside as she tried to give me a kiss. At the age of nine, while I liked girls, I didn’t know anything about them; except that my sister was annoying and my mother was always yelling about nothing.

Pershing Market was the main attraction in the Plaza that wasn’t Wendy’s or The Hair Cuttery, which mom worked there until the chemicals were interfering…