One night I was walking home from a place I worked, a pub in East Baltimore called the Life of Reilly. I was on the bridge near home, I lived on St. Paul St. I was just minding my business, smoking a cigarette, tired as a dog, walking along.

There was another man on the bridge, probably about a hundred yards up the way. He was just minding his own. I'm not sure if the date is correct on this, for often I block this event from my memory.

Anyway, the man was listening to his headphones, wearing a hoody, minding himself.

A car blew past me and then into the railing in front of the man up yonder. It literally pushed the railing out. Then two men stepped one leg each out of the car and opened fire on the man with fast-shooting pistols. I think they probably shot him eight or nine times. They were yelling things. I was frozen in my tracks.

They looked at me briefly but apparently decided I wasn't much of a threat. They got back in their car, backed out with some difficulty, and drove off with burning rubber. I turned around on the bridge.

I didn't even have a cell phone in those days.

The police sirens came soon, though, nearby as I walked up another street to get home.

I still don't feel like a coward or bad person. Maybe I should.