Baltimore

Pablo and I rounded a street corner. He casually kicked a soggy condom with one end tied like a neat little package into the gutters as he continued his lecture on why the prostitutes throw out female condoms and only use male condoms. “They don’t understand,” he continued. “The ring comes out. It’s quite simple really, and empowering for them to be in control of their own body!” I thought he was still talking to me, but he was face to face with his watch and briskly moving ahead no longer attempting to step around latex memorabilia. We had to regroup with the rest of the volunteers from the Baltimore Transgender Rights Group every 30 minutes at a designated location, and we were late.

I was trying to keep up with his long, driven strides, but I was distracted by the conspiring crows positioned discretely in the winter elms. I stopped. They were there like black opals strung on wiry branches on every tree, every block. They were eavesdropping neighbors greedily spying on the blunders of humans below.

It wasn’t long before I felt Pablo’s presence, and together we listened to their sighing death rattle. “I’m not sure if they are telling stories up there or plotting our deaths.” “No,” whispered Pablo. “They are mourning for us.”

It was winter and the wind snuck in through the chinks in our downy armor. I expected Pablo to give me the orders to march on, but he didn’t. Instead, he spoke of his life on the streets, how the glamour of the 70s quickly decayed into the 80s, and how he and the city crumbled together. But now he was helping to dig her out. “It’s the greatest city in America,” he said.

Earlier that day, we had met at the Johns Hopkins Hospital where I was studying nursing. Within moments he had persuaded me to come with him during the witching hours to distribute care packages of KY jelly, peppermints, and condoms to the sex workers on North Avenue. This is health care, he had told me.

Suddenly, a jubilant disco light of garish reds atop a cop car de-spelled the haunting shadows. We watched from a distance as two policemen sauntered towards a woman awash in her personal limelight from under the moon. She wore her black mesh pantyhose and sequined skirt like golden chain-mail and toted her clutch like a gun holster. She was a Nubian pharaoh who was not ready to relinquish her claim to her concrete kingdom.

Unsure of what to do, I turned to Pablo. “How will we diffuse this mess?”

“Easy,” said Pablo. “We’ll offer them coffee.”