Steps Ova West Baltimore
The four marble steps outside my wooden front door were often stained from the artificially colored and flavored juices of Huggies or Faygos from the Asian-owned corner store near my Sandtown Winchester apartment. My step brother, Rome, was the tall, dark, and handsome neighborhood mack — who had more women rotating in and out of his upstairs apartment than I can remember — would give me a few dollars nearly everyday. I would use the gracious donations to buy my favorite snacks — Cool Ranch or Nacho Cheese Doritos, a Star Crunch, Andy Capp’s Hot Fries, and the Blueberry Faygo that made my tongue blue and caused me to burp excessively.
My friends and I would sit on my steps, “making a mess” as the old heads would say, attracting parades of ants and swarms of bees. A mop bucket, tap water, scrub brush, Ajax, and some elbow grease rejuvenated the steps to a pearly white sparkle, obliging the orders delivered by my father. He was not an extremely strict man, but he did believe in order and cleanliness, so cleaning the steps was no surprise chore for me.
My main friends were all guys who lived within a two bloc radius of my apartment on Arlington Avenue. One of my closest friends, Melvin, lived down the street with his elderly parents and voluptuous older sister, Kandy. Like me, he was named after his father. Melvin and I would jar back and forth on his steps while playing Pokemon Blue on the Gameboy Colors we got for Christmas last winter. We also both tried our best to manage our Iverson-inspired cornrows in hopes that girls would notice.
Body, known by the government as Khalil, lived around the corner on Mosher Street. I couldn’t tell you the origin story of his nickname, but I can tell you that he was often adorned with a fresh Caesar and the latest Baltimore street wear, probably funded by the car wash on North Avenue that his father owned. I don’t think his parents lived together, but he spent a good amount of time with both of him. When we weren’t playing Playstation video games in his second-floor bedroom, we sat on his front steps and used his stereo system to dub freestyles onto cassette tapes. None of our bars were memorable, but the tearful laughs made up for our lack of lyricism.
Next door to me lived Troy, who opened his door to me with “You did it again, huh?” every time I lost my keys while outside playing Army Dodgeball in an alley or riding my bike near Pennsylvania Avenue. He was a couple of years older than me and his dark chocolate skin and athletic build reminded me of Ricky from Boys N The Hood, though I don’t think he played sports.
Being older in my neighborhood often came with peer-pressured sexual experiences, experiences that were either real or fabricated but described well enough for your friends to believe you. One time, when my parents weren’t home, Troy came over and tried to have missionary sex on our dark gray living room couch with Lacey, a light skinned, neighborhood girl that I adored. She always wore jean jumpsuits that accented her ass. Angry that he was with my crush, I escorted them both to my steps and slammed the door like Martin Lawrence.
When my friends and I got too bored outside, we sometimes annoyed neighborhood drug dealers by yelling out their drug calls from my steps or the trunk of parked cars. “Killer bee, killer bee, red tops, red tops,” we chanted until they icegrilled us and told us to knock it off. Secretly, we wanted to be drug dealers. Some of my friends ascended to the occupation, but the thought of calling my father from Baltimore Central Booking, where my step mom worked, and saying I was locked up for selling drugs scared me out of considering it a legitimate career choice. That and the 50-something year old drug addict with a black cane who used our steps as a Temper-Pedic mattress kept me honest. My dad would politely ask her to move whenever she got too comfortable. I would just walk around her and hope she didn’t make a mess I would have to clean up later.
These days, twenty one years removed from Arlington Avenue, I rarely ride through my old neighborhood for various reasons. The sound of household items being thrown and violent yelling from my father's second divorce still haunts me. The sobbing from my teary eyes watered the steps as I left with my dad in the darkness of the night. The ghosts of childhood friends lost to gun violence still hover over the neighborhood. I heard Lil’ Reese, who lived three doors down from me with his older brother Johntay, was shot to death on a basketball court while going up for a layup. He died with dreams unfulfilled.
Like many poverty-stricken areas in West Baltimore, My old bloc never evolved. I’m sure the corner store never started selling organic or gluten free options like Whole Foods. The safety and security of Roland Park and Canton have not found their way there. I heard some friends still live there, but most traded the disinvested hood for the comfort of suburban homes and gated communities.
I have not been in touch with Body since around 2006. I don’t even know if he and Troy are still alive. I went from having sleep overs at Melvin’s house in the late ‘90s to only communicating with him through Facebook DM’s when he posts pictures to his stories. Technological advancements, they say.
I still know the marble steps are still there, though. I can’t imagine someone removing them. An article I read years ago dated the marble steps in Baltimore back to at least the early 1900s’, so what would they be replaced with? Cement, wood, or metal wouldn’t look nearly as pristine. They wouldn’t shine like hood diamonds after a fresh scrub. Ain't no way.
