A Painful Detour

"Coming downtown is getting to be an ordeal," Frank Baker complains. "You can't pass a traffic light without these damn black kids forcing their services on you."

Frank is sitting at a red light behind the wheel of his big cream colored Lincoln, his wife June beside him. They're middle-age suburbanites on their way to Baltimore's Little Italy for dinner. Their destination is only blocks away, yet it feels like an eternity at the moment. Frank waits in one of two long lines of cars backed up at the light at this busy intersection, a veritable goldmine to these young black kids that swoop and swarm, that insist on sponging windshields whether the drivers want them to or not.

They're known as squeegee kids, and they've become as endemic to Baltimore's urban landscape as its famed Inner Harbor. Some empathize with them, see them as poor, harmless kids hustling to make ends meet. Others, like Frank and June, see them as a nuisance, if not a threat.

"Oh crap, here they come," Frank whines, watching the six kids, some shirtless, swarm over the cars, squeegee sponges in hand, eager for business. Frank makes sure his doors are locked. His windows are up and the Lincoln's AC is humming on this warm, late spring evening. Nervously, he watches other drivers try to wave them away. He can read their lips: "No, we don't need it."

See, that's the problem people like Frank have with these kids. They're obnoxiously aggressive, won't take no for an answer. Your windshield could be smudge-free, and yet they insist on dragging their dirty sponges across it, then expect you to throw them some cash for services rendered, services that weren't needed, much less requested.

"Oh my, would you look at that," June cries, watching one kid punch the driver's side window with his sponge after the driver had shooed him away. She shakes her head. "Makes you wonder if it's worth coming down here anymore."

Frank nods while his fingers tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel. "I'm thinking the same thing. This is ridiculous."

The light changes to green but not long enough for Frank to get through. After it turns red, the kids once again swarm over the cars. "Now it's our turn," he grunts. "Lucky us."

A shirtless, skinny kid in torn jeans approaches with his sponge. "No!"Frank shouts, waving his hands vigorously for emphasis. No matter, the kid proceeds with his work. Franks shakes his head. His sense of outrage compels him to crack his window. "Gawd damn it, I said no! What part of no don't you people understand?" The kid continues, pushing his sponge across the glass in broad, even strokes. Frank lowers his window halfway. "Stop it! Stop it right now!"

June grips a hand around his forearm. "Frank, calm down, it's not worth it. Throw him a buck and be done with it."

The kid moves to the driver's side and holds out his hand. "Help me out here, mista. I just did you a favor." The kid looks no older than fifteen. He's got big white teeth and a well-defined six-pack.

Frank's reddish complexion turns redder; beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead. He brushes back his straight, dirty blond hair. "You did no such thing. A favor would've been to leave us the hell alone."

"Frank, please," June cries, and starts to open her purse.

Frank grabs it. "Put that away!"

The kid smiles, appears to enjoy the strained exchange between this man and his wife. "Let her pay me, mista," he says, still holding his hand out. "She knows what's right."

The light changes to green, but Frank ignores it. He's slipping into a rage at this intrusion, what he considers the epitome of arrogance. "What's right is that you kids should be off the street."

Horns start to beep. "Go, Frank, go," June pleads. "Let's get outta here."

He glances in his rear-view. Then, after cutting the ignition, he swings the door open, steps out and gets in the kid's face. "You people are the reason people like me don't come downtown much anymore!" Horns beep longer while drivers in Frank's lane try to steer around his Lincoln without plowing into cars in the next lane.

The kid laughs. "You holdin' up traffic, mista. Where's my dollar?"

Two of his buddies approach. One of them looks older, perhaps as old as twenty. He's wearing a white T-shirt, khaki shorts and black sneakers. He's close to six-feet, big boned and muscular. "Yo Darnel, you got a situation?"

Frank, paunchy and standing around six-feet two, decked out in white slacks and a sear sucker sports jacket over a short-sleeve maroon Banlon, looks indignant. "A situation that you people created," he states.

"Damn it, Frank, get back in this car!" June yells. Leaning over to the driver's side, she beeps the horn.

Rubber-necking motorists creep past, some also beeping. A young white guy in a green Jeep Cherokee yells: "Get your fat ass moving, you old fart!"

"You should do what the man says," Darnel's buddy advises. "Like get the fuck outta here."

Frank doesn't budge. He stands inches away and wags his finger. "And you should get off this corner and leave people alone." Two more teen kids approach, kids wearing worn sneakers and clothes that even Goodwill wouldn't take. They appear amused, listening to June screaming and the horns blasting. Frank keeps standing, seemingly oblivious, frozen in his outrage.

One of the smaller kids steps forward. "We just tryin' to earn a livin', man. Ain't nothin' wrong with that, is there?"

Frank folds his arms against his chest. "You call this earning a living, annoying and inconveniencing people?"

The muscular kid sounds off, makes a noise that comes out half-grunt, half laugh. "You the only inconvenient dude here, man." He points to the angry motorists trying to get around Frank's Lincoln.

Frank pokes his finger toward the kid's chest. "Yeah, well, it's about time that somebody stands up to you kids. The city should have done something about this crap years ago."

"Looks like we got ourselves a crusader," one of the kids says, a sarcastic smirk plastered across his dark face. "Big white fat cat telin' us what to do, takin' it upon his big white self to clean up this city."

Amid the chuckles, the kid pulls a cell phone from his back pocket. "Hey bro, how about a selfie?"

Frank shakes his head in disgust, then glances inside his car. June is still on the front seat, quiet now but pleading with her eyes for him to come to his senses. Turning back to the kids, he says, "Do your parents know you're out here doing this?"

The kid with the cell says, "None of your damn business, bro. Who the fuck are you, standin' up here—"

"Yeah, they know," the tall, muscular kid interjects. He waves his friend back. "My mamma says it's better than pushin' drugs, better than robbin' or stickin' up people. More respectable than doin' shit like that. Don't you think?" He throws his hands on his hips, raises his head slightly and looks Frank in the eye.

"It would be more respectable if you were in school or got real jobs."

"You hirein'?" one of the kids calls out. More laughter.

Just then, a slim young female cop on a mountain bike pulls up. Alighting from the bike, she looks at Frank and says, "Is there a problem here, sir? If not, it's time you move along, you're holding up traffic." She's attired in traditional blue and carries a Glock in her holster. The name Mendez is stenciled onto her shirt.

"Respectfully, officer, the problem is with these damn kids assaulting motorists with their sponges, giving us window washes we don't need or want. Can't you do something?"

The pony-tailed cop with dark brown hair gives him a look of weariness mixed with boredom. "Sir, they're not breaking any laws. Did they assault you personally, touch you in any way?"

"No, but—"

"Then you need to move along. It IS against the law to hold up traffic for no reason."

Frank shakes his head and stomps the cement with his left shoe, a two-tone, brown and white wingtip. "Well, there ought to be laws against what they're doing. It's bad for our city, any city."

The kids look at each other and snicker.

"Tell it to city hall, sir," she says, a not inappropriate response, for the ornate Victorian City Hall building stands just a couple blocks away, within sight of the intersection. "Now get in your car."

"For crying out loud, Frank," June screams from her seat, "do what the officer says, and let's get going. I'm getting hungry."

Frank bangs his fist on the roof of his Lincoln. "These kids are a nuisance, officer, can't you see that? I'm a law abiding citizen who's tired of being accosted by these punk kids."

Officer Mendez calls for backup into her shoulder held, portable radio, then asks for Frank's license and registration. She orders the kids to back away and they do. Two of them walk off to wash more car windows, while the others elect to stick around, keeping their distance per Officer Mendez's orders. Then she turns to Frank. "Sir, you're about to get yourself locked up. Now move on."

"Oh, so now I'M the criminal," Franks yells, poking a finger into his chest. "Fucking unbelievable!" He spits on her heavy black shoes.

Whipping out a pair of cuffs, she orders Frank to turn around with his hands behind his back.

Frank spreads his hands, palms up. "You're fucking kidding me, right? What are you charging me with?"

"Assaulting a police officer," she says brusquely. "Now turn around."

Looking up, Frank sees a marked Chevy Impala approaching, its roof lights blinking. "Jesus fucking Christ."

June bursts into tears and alights from the car. "Please don't do this officer, he'll calm down."

"Hands behind your back!" Mendez snaps, ignoring June's pleas.

A black male officer with the name Harris stitched onto his blue shirt runs up and orders Frank to comply. He's as tall as Frank but in obviously better shape. His muscular forearms, replete with veins popping through them, hints at the sort of strength and conditioning that men like Frank should respect. Frank should, but he's now too livid to respect anyone, even a police officer. "Screw you idiots, I'm outta here," he barks and then attempts to get back in his car.

"You had your chance," Officer Mendez says. Then, with assist from Harris, she pulls him back, wrestles him to the ground and slaps her cuffs on him. When the kids let out a whooping cheer, she orders them to move on. "Or the same thing will happen to you," she warns. "Now go back to your window washing."

They do, while Frank is taken to Central Booking, just blocks away. June is present the following day when he goes before a commissioner and is released on his own recognizance. Driving back from downtown, he's once again surrounded by squeegee kids at an intersection—a different intersection and different kids, but it all looks the same to Frank. This time, he doesn't protest when one of them begins to drag his filthy sponge across his windshield. This time, he lets June hand him a dollar which he dutifully hands over after services rendered, services he still doesn't need or want. "You should have done that yesterday," June tells him, "and avoided all that mess. Next time—"

"There won't be a next time," Frank interrupts, driving onto the ramp of I-83. "The city's gone to hell in a hand basket. There's plenty of Italian restaurants out our way. And no squeegee kids. Fuck the city."

June sighs. "Suburban strip malls can hardly compete with the charm of Little Italy, Frank. A dollar's worth of inconvenience is not that inconvenient."

"It's not about a dollar, June, it's about being intimidated by those punks," he says testily. "What they're doing is a form of extortion. Cops look the other way while law abiding people like us get locked up if we stand up to them." He drives onto the expressway, then continues. "Maybe I'll start an online blog. There's got to be thousands of people who, like me, are fed up with squeegee kids."

June chuckles. "Good luck with that. You'll be excoriated for being a racist angry white male. There are worse things in life than squeegee kids, Frank. Be grateful that our kids never had to make a choice between cleaning car windows and dealing drugs."

He nods and thinks about that while he drives on toward his suburban sanctum, clean and safe and free of squeegee kids.