He didn’t have to stay, that was the thing. He had people in St. Louis.
“Not gonna sell,” he said. Replaced the bars with plywood and painted it green cause it was the color of money.
He was born on Fulton Street, in a brownstone three blocks up, east side. Back then no one lived on the west side—least not no one black.
“You just watch,” he said as he pasted up signs. “The neighborhood is coming back.”
He sold Coors fifty cent cheaper than Lees, but it ate away his profits. “I’ll make it back on smokes,” he said.
Then we watched the Murphy kid shot for no reason. Him just standing there, hand in pocket. And in six months’ time, he was robbed three times by the very people he was staying for. He watched the bank man tap up the notice.
“I didn’t sell,” he said.
This particular story was inspired by the history feature of Google maps. As I time traveled back to 2007, a story unfolded. Ultimately, I was not very happy with how my version turned out. It’s one of those stories Google Maps can tell better than I.