8:21 am Monday morning.
The yard is awash in activity, a whole world waking up to life on the inside. There are different ways to cope, and some are more free than others.
There’s a line to the weight pit, two dozen tryna get some early money. Others rush to their preferred set of pull up bars and exercise machines; they’re erected on six cement blocks, each with a narrow pathway to the track, and serve as gang meeting grounds as much as exercise areas.
Then there are joggers, either lithe and nimble in shorts and a T-shirt or the fatties, plodding along in winter gear, hoping to sweat off all those honey buns. There’s power walkers as well, chopping it up with friends.
Regardless, the yard is twice as busy in the summer. Better take advantage of the sun now because Michigan winters are brutal.
In front of the units, where there’s a basketball court, phones, and two sets of pull up bars, similar routines are performed. Gawkers stand outside, people watching and soaking up the sun. Dope fiends scurry around, pockets stuffed with ramen noodles and cinnamon rolls, tryna for a fix. The indigent walk around with an empty coffee cup looking for a free shot, like a bum begging for a change.
Today, my usual workout routine has been interrupted. The yard crew has to mow the front yard, softball diamond, soccer field, and other little plots of land. It’s a 4 hour job, for which I’ll get paid a little over a dollar.
It’s not much, but it’s honest. That’s more than I used to be able to say.
Easy Trouble 