#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE – LETTER “D” - DAWGS

Letter “D” is for the dawgs or dogs of the 'hood and just about everyone has one. Except for me. I have a cat and she is probably the mother cat of all the other cats around here, because she has very distinctive markings and all of the cats around here look like her. The cats live the life of Riley, lolling about in the streets and just daring someone to hit them. No one ever does; the cars slow to a stop, and beep politely and the cats languidly get up, stretch and saunter off to their yards.

My cat is pretty old and has the “little old cat” thing going on. When you pet her, it's like petting a picked-over turkey carcass with fur, but she's in good health and she spends her days glued squarely on some part of my body. She teases the little pit-bull puppy next door, and I scold her for it, which affects her not one whit.

Oso ("Oso" means "Bear" in Spanish) wishing I'd make Mama play with him... yeah, that's happening.

Most of the “dawgs” around here are pit-bulls and every one of them that I have ever dealt with has been a wonderful dog. I had one pop up out of nowhere and crawl into my lap, when I lived in the homeless shelter. He just wanted petting and love. He sat with me for several hours, until his frantic owner found him.

No dog-fighting is going on around here. People's animals are treated like their children. The funny thing is, if someone doesn't have a pit-bull, they have little, yappy dogs and there are several on this block. They also try to play with Mama, and she gives them a cat “F you” as well. As sweet as she is with me, she will sit just out of a dog's reach and just lay there, like she's the Queen Bee. I'm always apologizing for her. Oso, the pit-bull puppy next door, is really a good dog. Smart as a whip, and for a puppy, he's not hyper. He is intent however, on digging up the front yard, but he doesn't chew up shoes, or people, so, that's a plus.

Mama, thinking, "Goldurnit! These naps take a lot out of me! Quit waking me up!

Of course, an upside to having these loyal animals is they are good watch-dogs. Mama didn't exactly warn me when the two guys got in my house. When she first adopted me, she was extremely skittish of any type of noise. Now, that she's more secure, she just takes it all in stride. Plus, I think she darted out of her special kitty-door that she made, when these two guys got in the house. I'm not exactly equipped to keep a dog, nor can I really afford one, although I'd love to have one and keep up with the Joneses. Anyway, this is just a quick post. I'm also co-hosting #IWSG for Alex Cavanaugh this month! Happy *#IWSG'ing and #A-to-Z'ing!

*There is a separate page for the #IWSG post HERE: #IWSG CHECK-IN FOR APRIL 2016

#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE – LETTER “C” - C.O.P.S. - THE MEN AND WOMEN IN BLUE OF DISTRICT 3 – V. M. YBOR

(Uuuh!)

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

Watcha donna do when they come for you?

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

Watcha donna do when they come for you?

Lyrics courtesy:Inner Circle                                         

Thus begins a very popular show and one that has featured our TPD's finest. Letter “C” is for Cops; specifically, our District 3 guys and gals in blue, who patrol Nebraska Ave. I can't speak for any other districts' practices, but these guys (and gals) know us, and we tend to meet up with them at shift change in various pre-arranged spots, a few times a month, either at their swing-shift change, around 3 p.m., or in the morning at 7 a.m., for the day-watch change (not me, I'm a night owl), and I know most of the grave-yard shift who float through here like ghosts, and where they tend to lurk in the shadows, the better to see the trouble spots.

courtesy:tbo.com

Police of District 3 during a shift-change.

When I lived at the homeless shelter across Nebraska Ave., I got to know them even better, as various pairs of officers would show up once or twice, or even twelve times a day to mediate various squabbles, fights, or differences among the residents of the two houses. The number of residents in both houses fluctuated wildly and some weeks would see as few as 25 people in residence, while others would see as many as 80 people packed in. The reason the owners could get away with housing so many people at one time, is they held a hotelier's license at the time, which didn't have a cap on the number of people they could cram into one of these houses. This has actually been changed and there is no longer the situation where some rooms accommodated nine people.

The higher the number of people, the higher the tensions and the more arguments that led to violence would occur. The fact that people had access to hard drugs and many drank almost constantly brought with it the inherent lack of judgment that chemical dependency always causes. If we, or the so-called “enforcers” who lived in the houses with us couldn't control a situation, the police would be called. Or if someone became so injured, medical attention was required, then again, the TPD would have to get involved. We used to laugh and say, “let's tear down the church next door and build the TPD/Fire-Rescue/Tampa General Hospital Annex and save time!” It seemed like someone was always bleeding.

Ya had to stay sober and on your toes to survive and be a hell of a lot smarter than everyone else, and I developed a real talent for that, in a hurry. I also learned to be agressive, but that's another story.

People also called the poor police for some of the dumbest shit imaginable. One of my roomies thought she was the queen bee of the whole shelter and she wanted to “run” the kitchen. She was this little troll of a woman, about 4' 8'' tall and had a mouth like a sailor. We always did our own dishes and/or put them in the dishwasher or wiped them and put them away, except for this one idiot, who was from Chad, and acted like he was some kinda Prince, or something.

courtesy:tbo.com

For some peculiar reason, District 3 has the honor of having an Arts and Events department, which none of the other Districts possess. Possibly because both the Downtown and Ybor Arts districts fall under District 3. Or, it may just be this is where all the original cats come to live and work.

He worked out and was about 6' 5'' of pure muscle and he never really talked to you; he just grunted at you. I'd say “Hi, Eli!” and he'd go, “Fnf!” and that was the extent of our conversation. Well, when Eli cooked, he NEVER did his dishes. He just left them in the sink for some lesser being to do them. My roomie used to yell and holler and cuss at him for not doing his dishes, and threaten to put his dirty dishes in his bed. Finally, she did just that and yelled “Eli, for the last time, do your “F*ing dishes!”

So, Eli called the cops. And here they came. Completely mystified. They'd already been out there. It was a rough Friday. There'd been a stabbing out in the back yard, and someone else got beaned with a brick and they both were hauled off to TGH, and now... this? I'm sure the TPD had had a belly full of the whole lot of us.

When they showed up, all of us'ns who'd been sitting on the front porch scattered and hid, but hung around close enough so we could hear what kind of dressing-down was going to come from on high. The cops stood there in disbelief. They looked at great big Eli and little, teeny troll woman and said, “Who called us?” Eli said “Fnf, I did. She said a swear at me,” while pointing his thumb at the troll. The troll puffed up and said, “Well, he won't do his f*in' dishes!” The police, a man and a woman just goggled at them, then looked at one another, then back at these two idiots. The lady cop pointed at Eli and said, “YOU! Do your dishes!” The gentleman cop pointed at the troll and said “And YOU! Stop swearing!”

They turned to leave and they could hear all of us rustling around in the curtains and they both said, “And you ALL need to BEHAVE yourselves, or we'll come back and burn this place down with you in it! Have a good night!” They waved at us cheerily and left.

Officer Fair and Officer Margaret are still around, along with Lt. Williams – my night owl buddy. Lt. Williams and I have teamed up on a couple of “capers”, the most recent one being, where I stand there in the road and watch his car, to make sure no one steals it, while he investigates the “gunshots fired call” that I called in ten minutes before. He runs back and forth to give me an update, and we're pretty sure it's just kids playing in some back yard. There have been no real gang wars, or shootings in a while.

courtesy:tbo.com

Police from all districts and one of the local radio stations film their version of "Harlem Shake". When I worked for the Gastonia, NC Police Department, I noticed a lot of "hams" working there. We had a town showcase that coincided with a NASCAR race in Charlotte and the cops were fighting over who got to ride in the NASCAR car and who got to be in the commercials. It was a lot of fun watching them sqabble over "kid" stuff and just have fun. The police here are terrific, just as the ones in Gastonia are and I salute them for a job well done!

Our previous caper involved getting two elderly “señors”, if not off a deserted house's porch, at least a couple of blankets, so they didn't freeze overnight. I got a lot of updates on that, too, as Lt. Williams would run to the house, talk to the them, run back to me and say, “I'm gonna go lecture them a little more about sleeping outside in cold weather...” Obviously, Lt. Williams cares about the people out here and is keen on keeping everyone informed. He's probably my favorite officer.

There is an older Sergeant who refuses to go to the "barn" or onto a desk and should have done so long ago. But, he is such a fine street cop, no one messes with him. He runs up and down Nebraska Ave. in his prowl car and is known as “The Batman” and everyone knows him. A sighting of him is cause to squeal, like we saw one of the "Beatles", or some shit and he can diffuse a bad situation in a heartbeat. He'll probably “retire” behind the wheel of that damned car.

Unlike other places and Ferguson comes to mind, Tampa is blessedly free of unjustified cop shootings and the police know the people on their beats. They make it a point to work alongside and with the people and develop their CIs or Confidential Informants, carefully and over time and with as much trust as they can. The FBI is also a large presence here, but at times they do more harm than good, and the TPD is very aware that they need to have information from the local populace, because the FBI will compromise a CI just to keep him going, and the CI is still out there committing crimes. It's frustrating for the TPD and they will only allow that for so long, before they'll step in for the good of the 'hood. It's just too dangerous.

One little socio-path had warrants and the FBI took them off the table. Then, he was caught on tape committing Grand Theft. Everyone knew he was going to blow it, so away he went. The Citizenry (i.e. me and several others) stepped in by starting a crowdfunding Campaign so that the victim could miss time from work and still get paid. The CI kept trying to delay and delay his trial, knowing he was caught dead to rights and in hopes the victim would not be able to afford time off work. We garnered enough money through our crowdfunding Campaign, so the victim could could say "sure, no problem, I can take that day off, too!" Group efforts always pay off like that. Our District 3 cops won, we won, and too bad the FBI lost their source, but they were probably being fed a pack of lies anyway.

These are also the District Cops who were doing a little dancing on the day of the messy accident in the intersection of MLK and Nebraska Ave. I couldn't swear to it, but there were four of them and there was at the VERY LEAST some synchronized hand and foot movements going on, as the four officers directed traffic. Why? 'Cause Nebraska Avenue!

#A-TO-Z CHALLENGE – LETTER “B” - 'BANGERS 'N' 'BALLERS

Letter “B” is for 'bangers and 'ballers and we've got lots of them around. They're not what you think. The 'bangers are the hard-working men who are day-laborers and who fix the houses in the 'hood or go out and work in more splendid houses in the suburbs. They leave early in the morning if they're traveling and come home to their families in the mid-afternoons. They may have a beer or two, cook some bar-b-que, or a goat, listen to a little reggatone (mariachi hip-hop) music on the box, play with the kids and go to bed early, so to do it all again the next day. These are the men of families who live in my 'hood. Some young, some not so young. My Mr. Fixit and his wife live right next door and he's the odd-job guy for my landlord. Neither he nor my landlord speak much English and when they come into my flat to fix something it takes 4 hours and a lot of hollering in Spanish; it's like the 2 Stooges.

courtesy:tbo.com   

A group of day-laborers, or " 'bangers" working out of the Port of Tampa. These men and women have to be up and ready by 3:30 or 4:00 a. m. to be picked up and taken to the various works sites. They're typically paid daily and they work hard.

The 'ballers are the younguns. The little kids with their plastic balls that they ALLL get at the grocery store and throw up and down the street. We have to watch for the little ones, and try to keep them in the yard. Nebraska Ave. and it's environs is not kind to the young. More people are hit and maimed by cars here than in any other place I can think of. But, kids love to play with their balls and it's a hard lesson to learn. We try to keep them on the side streets or in Cuscaden Park, if we can't keep them in the yards. The yards are tiny and not all that much fun, but the kids are.

courtesy:123rf.com

These balls are ubiquitous and innumerable. Their poor, deflated carcasses are all over the street, lying there forlorn; little wrinkled flags of dirty and semi-colorful plastic, now stiff and degrading, having given some child or a batch of kids their 15 minutes of fun before turning up their little toes and dying. I remember these from MY childhood and they haven't changed one iota.

Like kids everywhere, they've managed to turn an asphalt and grit driveway right next to my flat into a wonderland of their own design. There are anywhere from four to twelve of these kids tearing around, in this small space, 20' x 80' on a sunny afternoon, making up games, laughing and shrieking. There are more girls than boys, so I think there's more shrieking and if I remember my own childhood correctly, it involved a lot of shrieking in the streets. I was so loud my mother used to complain, but then, she complained about everything I did, or maybe it's just that the girls are a bit more shrill. Whatever, as long as they're not crying, it's good.

The bigger kids in the 'hood have these colorful plastic balls that they buy for a buck or .99 cents in the grocery store and the balls are pretty much the same balls we all had when I was a kid. Large, colorful and none-too-sturdy, they'll stand up for a couple of games of kickball and then deflate and lay there, dead soldiers in the street, while another kid offers up his sacrificial ball to the eternal game of whiling away an afternoon, pre-rush hour, when everyone starts peeling off Nebraska Avenue and dropping off folks from jobs, or coming home themselves.

courtesy:tbo.com

The prostitutes are ubiquitous as well, but they are bolder after dark. The fact is, crime is prevalent 24/7. There's a saying around here, "I'm not afraid of the dark; I'm afraid of what's in it." I don't ascribe to that; it pays to be alert 24 hours a day.

Then, as day turns to early evening and fades into night, I can finally sit on my own porch, which faces due west and is a mother in the summertime and only good for catching varying degrees of melanoma during the day, but very pleasant in the evening and at night. I can then sit in the shadows and watch the Avenue stir, and awaken in her other form. She comes to life with another beat of her own, that has nothing to do with the day's innocence of children and hard labor of the working-class poor. This is the time when the Avenue stretches, yawns, and breathes, as her pulse quickens and the sirens are heard up and down Nebraska. A new set of 'ballers and 'bangers have arrived, only these are not the benign ones seen during the day. These are the ones who deal the poison, and pack the muscle to make the reluctant do their bidding. Which is the real Nebraska? As in any complex and multi-layered tale, they both are and sometimes it is difficult to see where one ends and the other one begins, because they do overlap.

courtesy:tbo.com

As in most depressed and poorer areas, crime rates do drop during inclement weather, but they skyrocket during heat waves. Unfortunately, Florida is in mid-heat wave from about May until November. 

Children have been known to commit the most horrific of crimes here in daylight, the same as in any other place on earth. There are people who risk their lives both by night and day, and not just the police and the Fire-Rescue people, but folks who are out there all the time, taking care of the most at-risk folks; the mentally ill, the youngsters whose mothers are too zoned out on heroin to know where their kids are and they do it out of a sense of caring, not because they are receiving paycheck or a check from Social Services.

courtesy:thesun.co.uk

There are the soldiers of a gang, or the 'bangers. We don't see so much of this, thank God, but we do see the Kingpins, who typically, drive very pristine and expensive cars; exotics like Lamborghinis and Mazeratis. One dealer, or " 'baller" drives a limited edition Mustang Shelby Cobra, and I can recognize the sound of that engine from anywhere on Nebraska Avenue. The car is awesome, and very well taken care of. Drugs have been a part of Nebraska Ave. since forever, and with the mixed-zoning, it's impossible to stop the flow.

It is a rich and varied tapestry of damage and the mending of souls that makes this Avenue beat. Her rich and tough and completely unstoppable human spirit that makes people rise up again and again, to try and care for and stop the greed, corruption of the soul and bring a little kindness, light and some laughter into some lives that may have never had any. That, more than anything explains my fascination with what goes on here and also, my understanding of why I belong here on Nebraska, at this time. I am a keeper of the Chronicles, I guess. Nothing more than that.