I sat on the bleak, crumbling steps of the apartment building on the corner of 123rd Street. I shook my head in disbelief and watched as an old lady, who dropped by often, shook her fist at the two men, the ones who would loiter and ask for change. Full bodied, healthy men, one in a red hoodie with tattoos and piercings, the works, and the other wearing a waistcoat in a putrid shade of brown and  a pair of faded out of style 1990's denim jeans. The lady would scream at them to get a life.

“You bums should get a job and stop begging,” she would say.

The classic reply would be,

“Yeah and you should get a walker and complain to your friends at the senior center,”

They would laugh as if it were the funniest joke ever told. The old lady would mutter something and then walk to the vending machine, where she would attempt to buy a candy bar for a nickel.

“Yo granny, it ain’t the 1950’s anymore, eggs aren’t a dime a dozen and neither are candy bars” The hooded one would say.

She would stomp her foot impatiently. And then she would remember, the only change the machine took were. I‘m not sure if she heard him or if she chose to ignore him. As far as I know the vending machine took 50 nickel’s and didn’t even spit one back.

“Hurry up fool,” she would say to the machine, kicking it and then cursing under her breath.

She would pick up a chocolatey treat and triumphantly walk off in her waddlesome way, glad that at least something went right.

After she left, I prepared for an hour of ducking and screaming. The two men did too. Always right after the lady disappeared from view, the little boy with the little red ball would come out screaming and yelling. The ball was only half as annoying as the ball was, he would kick it up and down the street with his arms flailing. Occasionally it would hit one of the men, followed with a, ‘hey’ or a ‘watch out’.

Unfortunately he was my neighbor, a noisy neighbor, well at least he used to be my noisy neighbor.

I got kicked out of the shabby apartment whose steps I’m sitting on right now. Sometime the ball would roll over to me. I would only stare at it refusing to make eye contact. Once I did shoot him a glance and I saw him deciding whether or not he should say something to me. I quickly looked down at the ball. He thought better of it but kept his eyes glued to me, as if I might lash out at him. I felt his eyes bore into me. When I felt safe to look up. I found him playing with the ball chasing it up and down the street.

“My life is over!” I said with a cry of anguish and despair.

I don’t know if I was addressing this to the sky or the lady with cup of coffee walking by. She turned and stared and then continued walking along.

Ever since my third strike, I lost everything, my job, money, food , nearly all my clothes, my shelter, and then some, just to pay of some fiery tempered cops, who I bribed just to be out here, free. But at what cost? Everything. Everyone I know thinks I’m in jail.

Thought’s flooded my mind, as if a dam containing them broke, overwhelming thoughts like, where will I sleep tonight? And where will I eat, and where to get money?

I stared at the ball after asking questions like these, every time I did, it got redder and redder and brighter and bigger. Then all I could see was red. I passed out, but this is just another day on 123rd Street. One man goes from the middle class to poverty, and another man lowest of the low goes to filthy rich, yup just another day on 123rd Street.