Where do you think the inner city gangs get their product?
I thought about this when I witnessed a scene at a local weekend flea market. This flea market is held in the parking lot of a major rail transit station.
It's Sunday afternoon, and I'm poking around some merchants' booths over near the fence.
I overhear a man address someone. "You wit de po-lice?"
It's a middle-aged man in a light blue shirt and a skinny older woman. The woman laughs dismissively. No, she isn't. No, she doesn't see anything.
The man turns back to discussing something with someone at his booth. I watch discreetly, at a distance.
Then this guy goes up to the low chain-link fence and is chatting with someone on the other side. He's leaning backwards, and so is the other guy, back to back, but chatting out of the sides of their mouths. I watch Mr. Blue Shirt take something out, pass it to the guy across the fence. Money changes hands. The guy across the fence slinks off.
Mr. Blue Shirt's next customer is an adolescent kid on a bike. The transaction is more open and obvious this time. Both seem to be almost laughing about it.
Done with his second customer, Mr. Blue Shirt turns back to manning his flea market booth and selling whatever other legit junk he's there to sell.
Mr. Blue Shirt reminded of the character Sportin' Life in the operetta Porgy and Bess, though of course he was not so nearly sharply dressed.
I was also reminded of how Mr. Blue Shirt is aiding in the destruction of his own community. So much of what was for sale at that flea market was created by and for a certain ethnic group as an expression of ethnic pride. What Mr. Blue Shirt was doing was destroying his own people.
And yes, ultimately Mr. Blue Shirt must have some parts of his supply line that run south of our border.
Afghanistan