Tyler liked order. It was evident in the way he lived; his spartan apartment tidy, the kitchen clean and his clothes neatly folded and placed in their respective corners. Tyler wasn't fanatical but he was rigid in its enforcement and visitors often commented on his ability to domesticate, rare for a member of his gender and age.
Tyler flicked a towel at the ring Erik's glass made as it rested on the old but stylish coffee table, looking quietly at him as he did so. Erik, while neat enough in his own way, was oblivious to the deeper levels of Tyler's fastidiousness and took no notice replacing the sweating glass on the freshly wiped corner the moment Tyler's towel finished its sweeping harvest.
It was hot. The sun baked the pavement outside Tyler's window and the city beneath slowly swayed to the late summer rhythms. Tyler lived downtown, or very near downtown, and his window often proved more entertaining than the small the television with the bent wire antenna. It wasn't ghetto but it was close enough to peer across its border and both Tyler and Erik were familiar with the scenes constantly replaying themselves on the sidewalks and empty lots anchoring the adjacent corners of Tyler's residence.
"Here we go again." Tyler sighed wearily as a loud conversation rose from the street and entered the window of the living room.
It wasn't truly a conversation as only one voice could be heard, that of a withered young man strung long on the affects of street crack and lost paths. Erik slowly rose from the small couch and walked to the window, looking down to the scene below.
"See anything?" Tyler asked, knowing the answer.
"No, he's just talking to himself tonight." Erik answered.
Tyler grunted and was about to say something but then didn't. He knew there would be more to say later.
The sun slowly faded and the pale glow of the streetlight bathed the apartment in a soft but intrusive light. Tyler pulled the shade but left the small board of wood under the window to hold the glass open in the hope of attracting a breeze. The street below awoke at night in concert with the disappearance of the sun. When it did the activity in the vacant lot increased and the small liquor store across the intersection earned the bulk of its income. The corner light attracted nightlife like a neon bug lamp on a small town porch and Tyler was faced with the choice of either shutting the window and enduring the summer heat or leaving it open to hear the orchestra of the Big City night.
Tyler knew closing the window would offer no respite and wouldn't have closed it if it did. He felt a right to the evening and was not about to allow that entitlement to be forsaken. He kept the window open.
But Tyler was not a man who gave concessions without cost. The night breeze entered his small apartment with a price and the price was the constant soundtrack which accompanied the street. The marketplace of illegality conducted below his space was undisturbed by law, weather or clock and at times ran so wild as to intrude upon the very privacy Tyler valued so much. Tyler heard drugs traded, whores sold and debts collected, often by the blade of knife or point of a gun. It was a lawless place and those governed the corner did so without uniform, authority or conscience.
The lion ruled the jungle and the lion held the sword.
But Tyler never felt himself as prey and was not content to play its role. His salary purchased his apartment and his residence staked his claim to the turf and when his line was violated it was often repaid with the currency of the corner.
One does not negotiate with lions; reason is an alien language to such creatures.
And Tyler, while fluent in the language of sophistication, was bilingual in the land of chaos.
Erik went back to the window and confirmed the developing activity; the crack dealers conducting their steady trade, the cars slowly cruising and the verbal challenges of rivals escalating to violence.
"I think it's time." Erik suggested.
They slipped out of Tyler's apartment and slithered through the access panel of the vacated residence next door. Moving with the shadows Tyler clung to the wall and away from the glow of the street lamp. Reaching the window he accepted the small BB gun from Erik and listened as Erik counted time to the target.
"We got one, crackhead by the pay phone. They're about to do it. He's pulling out the money. Go."
At that moment Tyler quietly rose to his knees and smoothly poked the slender barrel of the BB gun through the open slot, sighting quickly he placed the target between the small notched sites and squeezed the trigger just as the urban trade was performed. The small projectile flew from the window in a downward arc, fleecing across the parking lot of the liquor store and pinching the skin of the grungy addict.
He jumped as if stung by a bee, hopping on both feet and clutching his lower back. From the open window both Tyler and Erik could hear the shout of surprise and pain as the addict grabbed his dope, squeezed his bruise and ran awkwardly from the scene.
The dope peddler, thinking his customer crazy, only laughed as he pocketed the filthy paper bills.
Tyler knew his actions held no affect on the corner's business. The police themselves told him as much when they responded to his first complaints with boredom, stoicism and finally exasperation.
"But they're out here all day and night! I can see 'em! These are the guys selling the drugs!" Tyler tried in vain to explain while the cops answered with equal passion.
"Sir, that's the way it is!" They said.
So Tyler declared his own Drug War and his victims bore the marks of his accuracy. It was an insurmountable effort though, and he knew it. His car window was smashed, his stereo stolen and mirrors unceremoniously removed. He knew it was not an act of revenge for his victims never knew what struck them, it was merely collateral damage for an address in that neighborhood.
Tyler was content to ping and ding the lower scurges who greased their disease across the corner's sidewalks and his guilt was always slaked by the actions which preceded his well placed marks. Once, a neighbor was attacked in the afternoon as her fiance ran up the steps with the groceries. She had stayed on the sidewalk to hold the door and was punched in the face for her generosity, a broken nose hers to keep while her purse ran down the street with her attacker.
Tyler hit the corner kingpin with three relentless shots later that evening, pumping the handle high and releasing powerful stings upon the large man's slabby muscular flesh. Each strike bringing rage and pain from the man's vile mouth. He, in fact, had the courage to call the police and lodge a complaint. Mystified when the landlord refused their entry the police were forced to listen as the landlord shook a steady finger at the drug dealer's face and asked them why he was not being questioned.
The purse was never found but the dealer wasn't sanctified either. It was as close to justice as the corner could expect.
Late that summer Tyler and Erik were relaxing on the back balcony, firing the grill and sharing cold drinks with the neighbor. Tyler used the balcony for these informal gatherings and he used it too as a small attempt to garden. The sun wasn't right though and the task was more ritual than function, the tiny tomato plant offering a small return on the time invested. But Tyler didn't mind.
Tyler saved what he grew and Erik wanted to ask why he kept the soft, unripe circles of pulp but Erik never remembered his query when Tyler was around, only later when driving home would he think to wonder again why it was Tyler kept a small basket of stale vegetables next to the plant.
It was late afternoon, the corner was quiet but each knew it was temporary and soon the sound of aggression could be heard marching up the block. There were five of them, each dressed in spectacular white. Their gym clothes of the finest and smoothest cuts, silky in their sheen and perfect in their press. The shoes they wore were meticulously polished, each lace stretched flat and dialed in a precise lattice. Their hats, stiff on the brim and pushed to the side, shone bright in the late afternoon sun. The five walked the sidewalk with a swagger leaving no room for the small woman to pass, she being forced to the street while they marched and swore in their youthful arrogance.
"Keep talking to each other and wait here. Don't look at them." Tyler said quickly with seriousness in his voice. He grabbed the small bag of rotten vegetables and dashed into the apartment.
"What's going on?" The neighbor asked nervously.
"Just keep looking at me and pretend like we're talking." Erik commanded.
"WHAT THE?" A voice choked with violent fury spat from the street. "SOME MUTHA'S 'BOUT TA GIT KILLED 'ROUND HEAH!"
At this outburst Aaron and the neighbor felt justified, even obligated, to look. What they saw was the end of a fine day for the five young thugs. Walking proudly under a decaying tree they had received the full impact of a sack of rotten tomatoes cascading from the sky and shredded by the brittle branches. Pulpy, red flecked shards of wet vegetable splintered and stuck to the once fine garments of the street toughs. The hats, moments ago being a sound source of pride and lust, were now stained with the assault's residue. The shoes were smeared, the brilliant white shirts and silky pants splattered with the flung decay.
Their fury was uncontrolled and needing a target they locked onto Erik and the neighbor. Violence of the purest and most undignified kind was invoked and threats, gestures and rage filled the corner. Erik looked and knowing the barrage would not be satiated with pleasantries shot cannons of fury back. Screaming innocence and righteousness he matched their anger with a deflection of their accusations that blushed the harshness of the corner.
Reluctantly they unlocked the steel penetration of their eyes and with a final threat turned and retreated. Erik was sweating, both from the heat and from his outburst, but the neighbor said nothing. Shortly the door to the living room opened and Tyler eased through.
"What happened?" He asked with deadpan seriousness.
