An excerpt from TANTRUM by CHARLES D. ELLISON
A GHETTOHEAT® PRODUCTION

            Walking past Broad Street, delusions is the anonymous, homeless and dirty dread-
headed dark man of no darkness, but the blackness of bad happenings consuming him. It’s not
time that weathers the man as much as the distance of many endless avenues, nameless streets
and missed beats thrown off by skips and fits of gambled fate.
            Owns little beyond an empty wallet and a ripped backpack that survives the dogged
survivalist terrain of his depressing urban adventure. This is what he does, how he exists, the
day-in and day-out of a vagabond walk that never ends.  And so, on this day, the man tackles a
long stretch of Broad Street, tripping over buckled sidewalk when—for no reason because, his
life has no reason; worn sneakers from the local shelter suddenly spring a right turn into a gas
station. 
            There’s nothing unique about this particular gas station because, it resembles every other
gas station in the city that has pumps, broken car vacuums and dingy mini-marts selling
junk food, expired condoms and cigarettes behind bulletproof windows.
            He then attempts to add a little personality to it, adjusting into street-beggar mode
while sticking his hands out: “Excuse me—do you have a dollar for a bite to eat?” He poses a
very strategic question, because it somehow cracks the irritated faces and gritty Nicetown dispositions
of people passing him by. A polite question, but it’s also fast and pointed enough, yet touching
in his acclaimed search for food: Which is bullshit, he’s thinks, because there’s a methadone
clinic only blocks away where I might be able to grip a bottle of Oxycontin to wash the day’s
sins away.
            Most ignore his requests for random charity; a few are pretty damn nasty about it. But, a
good number offer loose change and crumpled dollar bills—a rare few out of compassion; the
rest out of guilt or something like that. The man despises the occasional smart-ass who will test
his “bite to eat” by offering to buy the food instead. Those walks to the carryout across the
street waste time, and he gets vicious heartburn from the MSG.  But he has little choice but to
play it off. 
            We will call him “Dread”. His identity is unknown because it is filed away in
abandoned houses, train yards, warehouses and cardboard boxes under bridges. There are the
humiliations, of course: the muggings at night; drunken kids looking for a bum fight; he might
score nauseating sex from an infected crack-head who requires his scarce dollar for the next
fix.
            At some point, Dread figured he was all worth forgetting. Driver’s license; Social
Security card; an old photo of a daughter Dread thinks is his—all of that is at the bottom of a
brown, polluted Schuylkill River. Strangely enough, though, he possesses a library card. The
books keep a fraction of sanity maintained and he always brings them back on time.
            While at the gas station, Dread stops for a moment to case the scene. It’s morning, and
the stress of stressed out people are moving about their business quickly, moving briskly in an
effort to end the day as soon as they humanly can. They all shower him with petty looks and
pitiless stares, as a frigid fall wind blows through Broad Street.   
            The ominous, refitted brick and metal frame of an abandoned clothing factory, rises
above the corner of Broad and Lehigh like a haunted Scottish castle on an urban landscape. 
Within two years, Dread expects a multi-million dollar condominium park to replace the old
factory halls across the street from the gas station. If he doesn’t get harassed by the impending
police presence in the wake of yuppie emergence on his corner, Dread anticipates new revenue
streams from wealthier individuals. He argues this point just yesterday with another lost, dingy
soul under the Ben Franklin Bridge, while on an extended evening drink binge.
             “Them yuppies movin’ in? That’s loot, son. That’s guilty modern professionals tryin’ to
get a conscience, so they throw money at you.” Dread was loquacious that night, lit and limed
on a killer pint of rum he snatched from the corner liquor store. All Dread could see was a
blurred crescendo of Camden’s skyline lights dimpling the Jersey side of Delaware, and the
distorted, hamburger meat face of his other homeless friend— who was just as hopeless as
Dread was.
            “Dread—what you talkin’ ‘bout? That’s called gentrification, my friend. And I will bet
that it’s not as progressive as you make it sound.  It’s overpriced condos, rising property taxes
and poor folks getting pushed out of homes because of unfair property assessments,” his friend
piped on about the evils of outsiders moving into blighted neighborhoods, as if he had personal
knowledge about it. Perhaps it was the reason behind his present misfortune.
            Dread snorted. Speech slurred. Back slumped. Genitals burning from some unknown
STD: “Seems like people livin’ there should’ve been takin’ better care of the hood,” laughing
and spitting spittle of rum. “Now they want to get vexed because the man then moved in and
figured how to make profit and high life off rundown homes.” With an unorganized band of
raggedy vagrants and addicts crowding around them to listen in, that evening’s conversation
carried a political talk show quality to it.
            And so, in the meantime, Dread watches his progress arrive: the construction crews
banging away, nails hammered, wood split, massive cranes slowly moving unidentifiable
objects in mid-air. The noise scrambles the concrete serenity of a Northtown morning,
transforming it into a cluttered neo-ghetto symphony. Contractors and day laborers with scarred
fingers and aging faces, bleed the filth of work that flows into puddles of caked drudgery on
stubbed chins. They are like a battalion of ants building out a mound of dirt, but it’s a louder,
stronger, defiant intensity that rocks cold metallic atmosphere, and stirs stained pigeons into
wing-flapping fury. 
            Angry birds looking for breadcrumbs and cigarette buds flutter about the building’s
noise in aimless drift. Dread sees glimpses of opportunity in this, but his sanity is long
consumed by a defeated soul worn rough. Dread’s life’s file is heavy from the weight of
unkempt locks bearing on the skull. Pacing asphalt amid the alcoholic ads, lottery billboards,
and scent of price-gouging fuel, Dread pokes his soul for new answers. 
            “How can I find work with the hard hats banging away up there,”he asks while
scanning the organized chaos of construction.  My situation, Dread continues, is as dry as that
salty stretch of burning funk I can’t seem to shake.  Damn! he curses. That funk of no direction.
That funk of regression. That odor of no hope, broken promises and exhausted salutations.
            It is here where the BANG! CLANK! BANG! CLANK! of a ground excavator is
overheard, blasting the bitter silence of the begging man’s introspections. 
I am in need of a much-needed break from misery, Dread cries. I am misery. …A job sure could
reverse it, he screams back at the excavator, and the God he thinks will hear him.