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Mr. Cleanup

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I‟m Mr. Cleanup. Meaning, that I‟m the nigga that cleans up shit in this neighborhood and keeps
it looking crispy c lean for the residents that walk these streets. I come across as just the average elderly
nigga for sure, and that‟s understandable. There‟s nothing about me, nothing unique, so to speak, that
would make me stand out more than any other resident that strolls these crumbling streets. Nothing except
for the fact that I‟m the one man that takes his time in the morning to grab an economy-sized garbage bag
from his own stock, some of his personal gloves, and sets out each morning to c lean up the litter left by
all the trailer trash and niggers, a like. Do I talk this way when I speak to my brothers? Of course not, but
that‟s what most of them are. White niggers, black niggers, from what I see this neighborhood is full of
them. To the brothers I call the whites trailer trash, and to the whites I unabashedly call the blacks the
niggers. But in the end they‟re all niggers. I‟m one of the few actual „people‟ that roam these streets.
It‟s a Monday when I begin my routine for the three thousandth and twelfth day, and as I make
my way through tall weeds and brambles between the side of a gas station and a chain-link fence, I notice
a white base-head talking to a drug dealer near the double-glass doors that give entrance to store. I try to
keep my head down, and pretend not to notice a thing, but even as I keep my eyes on the trash that I‟m
picking up I can see the exchange as it plays out in my head. It is a routine that is mundane at this point.
Dealer checks the street for five-o, slaps the white boy a five that is the exchange for funds, then the white
boy strolls away and shakes another man‟s hand on the way out of the lot, which is where the transfer of
product occurs. Of course these men will eventua lly get caught, because the base -heads always come
back here to get their drugs and the dealers always look to get their money. They can‟t help themselves.
“Dumbasses,” I muttered. “Drugs right in front of the gas station. I hope you do get caught with
your retarded asses.” I picked up a pair of dirty female underwear and shoved it into the economy-sized
garbage bag, tossed in a few Twinkies wrappers, pop cans, liquor bottles, and used condoms, before
coming across a pair of dirty male underwear. I shoved those in too.
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