Ed, and the Hellhole on Strawberry Knoll

I drove through northeast Gaithersburg today. It was the first time in several years I had gone through that strange mixture of yuppie developments and condos (all carefully insulated from their surroundings by fences, large hedges and strategically planted rows of trees), and the Montgomery County Airpark, a gritty, industrial area peppered with shades of the Underclass.

The little beer stores that carry almost no imports but have fortified wine on display right in the front door, along with Milwaukee Beast and various malt liquors, are all still there, much as they ever were. I didn't see the panhandlers begging for change out in front of them today, though. Perhaps the police have been cracking down on them. Perhaps they have been for a while. Ten years ago, they were a constant fixture. You got to know them by name. Old Man Tom, for instance, was a grey haired old codger (probably not nearly as old as he looked) with a thick grey beard that put the Gibbons brothers to shame. He never bathed, smelled like stale beer and piss, and lived in a big wooden shipping crate out behind some plumbing and heating company. The crate is still there, I didn't see him. I'd be surprised if he's still alive. There was Richard, who lived the life of the upscale bum: he had an old camping trailer on a scrap and storage yard at the end of the industrial park. You could count all his ribs, but he always made sure his dog had enough food.

It was in these surroundings that I met Ed, and thus began my official introduction to the Real World (the one we live in, not the shitty TV show).

When I was 17, in the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I had a day job at an equipment rental shop in the airpark. I was one of two yardmen: prepping machines, cleaning and checking them, shit like that. The other one was Ed. I don't know how old he was, and I'm not sure he knew. I'd guess early forties. But he was a pleasant fellow, easy to get along with, and funny as hell. He spoke with a distinctive Maryland country boy accent, and real fast, kind of like Boomhauer from King of the Hill. He was also the first black man I'd ever really known.

Now of course, being as I was only 17, the coolest thing about Ed was that he could buy beer, and had no problem doing so on my behalf. I drove him home from work almost everyday, and he'd usually invite me in to knock back a few. He lived in a hellhole in the Bottoms, on the far side of Strawberry Knoll.

The Knoll was a short hill with a steep point. On the side ascending it, were developments of were 3 story prefab houses made of popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue, with large pricetags and small plots of land, practically sitting on top of each other. I couldn't help thinking of them as housing projects for yuppies. Nor could I help thinking of them as being somewhat separate, and distant. The way they sat just far enough off the road and tucked just far enough behind the hill so as to seem inaccessible, out of reach, almost seemed like an ominous teller of what came next.

The far side of the Knoll was The Bottoms, a whole different world. The houses were old, mostly disheveled and with ill kept lawns, and sat right on the road like they were trying to crowd you. The residents were mostly black, which even at 17, with no concept the black underclass or how it differed from anything I was accustomed too, made my senses all perk up. It was a form of alertness I had not felt before. It would be a while before I learned what it meant.

Nothing bad ever happened to me there. In fact, I came to enjoy hanging out at Ed's place. Even after I left the rental shop and moved on to a new job at a college a few miles away, I went by there frequently. I would often take my white teenage friends from back home there. We'd drink beer and smoke weed and do other stuff that seems so much cooler when you're still a kid.

There were things in that place though, that disturbed me, even before I realized I was indeed disturbed. For one thing, despite his age, Ed lived with his mom. Not only that, but so did at least three of his brothers, one of his nephews, and one of his sisters. At any given time there might be more people in the house, many of whom weren't even related and some who none of the family even seemed to know. All of these were grown, able bodied men and women, yet Ed seemed to be the only one who ever worked. They contributed practically nothing to the household or to their mother's care (Ed included). Their mother, for her part, was a sweet old lady, prematurely aged by a hard life. A farmer's daughter, then a farmer's wife, and the mother of 14 (yes, four-teen) children, too many of whom never amounted to much. The ones still living there were shiftless with a capital SHIfT.

If I would find occasion to swing by there during the day, I'd usually find half a dozen or so grown men sitting listlessly around the television watching Jerry Springer or alike, or sitting under the large shade tree in the backyard, drunk and high on any and everything in the early afternoon. One time I happened in on this, and Ed wasn't there. He wasn't really good for much, but he did maintain employment. Even so, two of his brothers were there whom I knew, as well as Wayne, the quiet, timid, little guy who almost seemed scared of his shadow. There were also maybe 8 or 10 guys I'd never seen before. But I had the day off from work, and nothing else to do, so I walked up to shoot the shit with them and maybe steal a beer, and I made the mistake of entering the conversation with "What's this, a holiday? Is everyone off work today?"

All of them, including Ed's brothers, glared at me like they were all going to get up and kick my ass. They also had a look like they were trying to figure out what I meant, which I now realize they genuinely didn't understand. That intimidated them. The looks were meant to keep me in my place. By this time, I'd already learned that you never show any sign of weakness or backing down with these people, so I remained silent and stared back, until little Wayne broke the ice by chuckling, referring to me by name and offering me a beer.

I'd received this kind of reception from people at Ed's house before. Bad attitudes, looks of mistrust, and endless posturing aimed at making sure I knew who was boss. But this was the day it finally occurred to me the reason for all this: I was white. I had become familiar enough to Ed and his brothers, but anyone who didn't already know me well were automatically suspicious and resentful of my presence. This was exacerbated by the fact that I was clearly the intellectual better of everyone there, and they all knew it. I didn't understand the significance of it, but I knew it to. I couldn't pretend, even to myself, that I didn't notice the abhorrent English, lack of education and literacy, and the vacuous expressions that overtook their faces during almost every conversation, as they tried to pretend they were keeping up with what I was saying. I didn't think it was any big deal, but most of them were intimidated, and to some of them that meant the same as being insulted. I'd been in fights with a few of them. The rest never let them live down the fact that they got their ass kicked by a teenage white boy, but in reality it's not usually too difficult to stomp an out of shape drug addict, especially when he's so fucked up he can't even walk straight.

They could be cool with me though, when useful. Unlike any of them, I had a valid driver's license, and wheels, with tags that didn't come from a car in the beer store parking lot. Everyone was mighty nice to me, blessing white folk and God Almighty who is Father to us all, when they needed a ride.

After a while, Ed came home. We had a few beers, and I left. As I drove away that day, It all finally made sense to me:

This was the Underclass, and I was witnessing it for the first time.

I thought about all the things I'd heard, things I'd heard genuinely racist white guys say, as well as things that bleeding-heart types had told me racist white guys would say. I couldn't say that they were true as blanket statements (and still can't), but in that house I saw an awful lot of things firsthand that I had been told weren't real. Things that were supposed to be all filthy lies told by evil white supremacists who make it all up because they hate black people for no reason at all. Black people were all supposed to be wholesome and good and oppressed and beautiful, with a rich and heartwarming culture and the-slums-got-so-much-soul and anyone who says otherwise is racist and a nazi and probably eats little puppies. Indeed, I've since met many black people who are as decent, respectable and just all around good people as anyone could ask. But my first experience was with the black underclass, and I saw a lot more of what the rednecks told me I'd find than what the bleeding-hearts told me.

"Oh, so this is what made Whiskey a racist!" No. These events did not make me a racist. That didn't happen until quite some time later.

Ed and I remained close friends for a few years, though visits became much less frequent. One day I stopped by while I was in the neighborhood, and one of his sisters told me he had disappeared a few months before. He didn't say where he was going, and as far as I know, he never came back.

As for quiet-timid-little Wayne, last I heard of him he had gone to jail for cracking his brother Sterling's head open with a baseball bat over a matter of $20. Sterling had a shitload of stitches, but he came out alright. The head is the safest place to hit Sterling. There never was much in there to hurt.