Brick walls with graffiti on them. Painted in blue and red. Crowns and pitchforks. A crack pipe on a sidewalk made of tin foil.

The Arab store trades in food stamps for cash; sixty will get you forty. A transaction is made. Now he can buy his goods for the night; a forty ounce, dime bag, pack of smokes. Later, in the midnight hour, he will purchase a Big Mac. Maybe fried chicken at Kennedy’s on the boulevard. Before the sun comes up, his money will be spent.

And he sits on the corner the next day with the other bums, junkies, crazies, runaway teens and whores. Waiting for someone to walk by with mercy. He begs for a dollar. Dimes and quarters are dropped in his hat. This is their church; a collection must be taken.

But, it’s not one for all all for one. It’s every man for himself. America has taught them well. All profit. No overhead.

The fat man sits in his pants filled with piss and shit. The smell is horrendous. He sings out songs as people walk by. His voice cracks and sputters. They keep walking.

He tells Jr. tales from Bellevue. Strapped to a bed. Isolation. Meds handed out like candy. Talked about the woman who used to bring in pizza for everybody. Everyone got a slice. She was an angel. Then, one day, she stopped coming. Nobody knew why. She just stopped. Maybe she went to Heaven, Jr. said. The fat man nodded his head. That’s it. Maybe she died and went to Heaven. Do you think we go to Heaven? he asked. Fat man was silent. Started singing again. A dollar was dropped in his hat.