So there I was in the basement of the Department of Transitional Assistance, a neologism worthy of Orwell, on my typical subterranean joint, listening to the poignant, distracting, horrifying, visceral narratives of the Down and Out. It’s all very familiar territory: Why, just hours after taking body blows worthy of a boxer–mentally and emotionally speaking–I was on the phone talking to a blood relative about the segregation, round-ups, deportations, and murders he witnessed.
“I was friendly with the little girl who moved upstairs,” he said. “Not her sister. Anyhow, she and her father escaped the terror, but the police caught up with them and they were murdered.’
Oh, happy days! Happy, happy days!
The last individual I saw at the DTA (Department of Transitional Assistance) tried to act in a way that he thought would convince me he was crazy: Mumbling, talking to himself, etc. But when it came to his incarceration for manslaughter? Clear as a bell! I googled his name later and guess what I found?
Don’t ask. But it was all there.
You realize, of course, that throughout the day there was not a snack in sight.
Later that evening, however, the Nigerian meal rescheduled, I pan seared a waygu burger and broiled Comte atop it. Served with baby Yukons oven roasted and steamed baby squash, I almost felt normal again.