Chapter 1 of The Artist and The Drunk(rest of them on a second part)

On Sundays, there was never much to do in Jersey. The roads would be empty, the sky would be gray, and most people would cram themselves into church, waiting to be saved. My town was not exempted from this rule, in fact, I was pretty sure it was worse than average. I could never quite fathom how we could get lost and forgotten in a land of freedom and opportunities, but we managed it. Not only was crime prevalent in our dirty streets, but even nature seemed to turn its back on us. The sky was never blue. It was always this sickly gray that spread into and infected the clouds. They were never quite white; damaged by too much pollution and smoke from factories. They looked more like unwashed pearls chained together and hanging from the skyline, blending methodically with the smoke stacks and stray cigarettes. It was almost always like this. In the summer, the sun would occasionally show its existence, and the sky may be blue for a few hours, but it never lasted. Nothing ever lasted here, and I was getting used to it by then. 

It was the middle of winter. The unforgiving heat of summer was still ages and months away, but the break of spring was still a distant wish, too. For now, we were stuck within the confines and leftover wrath of winter. Despite the snow no longer falling in thick white sheets every night, there were still clumps of it gathered here and there throughout the small city. As a tradeoff, we got bucket after bucket of freezing rain, making the already dangerous streets from crime too hard to walk on. Sometimes Good Samaritans would put out salt so no one broke their neck as they trotted along, but like with a lot of other things here, you were taking your life into your own hands. 

For the most part, Jersey was a pretty dangerous state. Not all places were bad, but my small city seemed to collect the strays of society. We were filled with ex-cons filtering back into a normal life from the prison a few towns over. No one really knew why all the convicts chose to come here. It wasn’t like we had a better education system or job market – it was just as bad as everything else around. Social assistance had decided to make an appearance about five years ago to help out with the single mothers and drug addicts that lined some parts of town, so that could have been a contributing factor to our sudden popularity. Some people would joke that the fishing was good here, so that’s why all the ex-cons came. I didn’t believe that story for a second. I had seen the lake that bordered us; there was no way people were even going to attempt fishing in that. If they did, they deserved any type of disease they got. Besides, I would have thought that ex-cons would be more interested in the marked gang territory than bothering with tackle and bait. 

Because of our diverse neighborhoods, most kids were never allowed outside to play, even in the daylight hours. When and if they were allowed, an older sibling was appointed baby sitter to cling to their side constantly. Bodies had been found in that lake which people liked to ‘fish’ from, and a few people had been taken away for sex crimes against minors just around the corner from the local park. It wasn’t exactly the most nurturing environment for a seven-year-old to play in. Most kids stayed indoors and fed off what little cultivation they could get from a television set or their parent’s constant squabbling. Even some adults felt the paranoia in their veins and looked over their shoulders as they walked to the smallest distance to the local convenience store. Even inside, it wasn’t always the safest place to be. There seemed to be about a two month cycle in the robbing of each convenience store. One would be hit, then the next one over, and so on. It was getting to be pretty predictable, so much that the clerks sat and waited most of the time for this to happen. A few times guns and other weapons had been involved, but since it was teens doing most of the action, none were smart enough to get a gun and use it properly. The men in the area saved their time and energy for bigger and better criminal acts, like the mob and drug trafficking. 

Despite all these precautionary measures, if you lived in this city you never really felt fear. You’d get scared sometimes, when a police car would come ripping down your street at an alarming speed, or you’d hear about homicides in the newspapers that were down the block from you, but it would dissipate. There was never a constant throbbing panic because there was never anything specific you could force it upon. You knew it wasn’t you specifically being targeted, so you never let that urge of danger seem in too far. You just dealt with it; you knew how you were supposed to act. It was ingrained in your memory to not cross over onto Dunlop Street because that was where the guy lived who had all of the ammunition in his backyard shed. You knew not to go behind the movie theatre in broad daylight because drug deals were happening. You just knew. And it was accepted. This was your home, after all, and fuck, despite the sheer and complete danger behind everything, people loved where they came from. They supported it fully. They filled the local shopping centers, schools, and even churches with smiling faces and pride. Must have been the good fishing.