I was ill for almost the entire month of October, and in the midst of recovery I have nearly become a shut-in. I was brashly awoken by the Susan G. Komen breast cancer marchers headed north on Central Avenue, shouting such delightfully clever phrases as "Hey hey! Ho ho! Cancer's got to go!" Still, I fell back asleep, and only woke just before 4 PM. It's moments like these when one realizes that one's life is out of order.
Just before 7, I forced myself out of my apartment, to remind myself that I was alive and that I had a full weekend to myself. I walked to No Mas! Cantina and spent a fortune on food, tequila and beer. Too timid to chat up the impeccably-dressed young women to my left, I sauntered home, feeling satisfied. Though I would have rather little to write about here, I felt proud of myself for leaving the apartment like a normal member of society.
As I passed the Garnett MARTA station, the tone of the evening changed. A stocky man of about thirty was calling out to me from the long pedestrian entry to the station, across the street: "Hey! How you doin'? Wassup man?" Knowing that such random salutations after sundown usually come from drug peddlers, I feebly grunted a standard reply and kept walking. Another man, this one decidedly more geriatric, asked if I was cold in my t-shirt, then offered to sell me some green. I politely declined. Not fifty feet ahead, another, fatter salesman offered me coke and weed. I used my (light) drunkenness as a reason that I didn't need any such thing. After the last syllable left my mouth, a Fulton County police car sped southbound across Pryor Street.
Would you believe that this homeless shelter is three blocks from the almost three-year-old Atlanta Public Safety Headquarters building? How is it that the Atlanta Police can deploy up to 150 officers to arrest peaceful protestors, about 9% of the total police force, but open drug sales in the shadow of their headquarters are untouchable?
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