We sped off. I was actually going to die there and then. The judge was drunk-with-power driving. Surely that was illegal. Judge suddenly had interest in her cohort. Turning to Evan, she extended her right arm to touch his chest: “You’re bllaaaack.” He took it as a compliment and smiled.

“Yes, Judge. I am black,” he boasted. It wasn’t like the dude had penned the great Dr. King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech. Thankfully we were approaching the corner of 12th and Spruce.

“Judge, you can just drop me off here,” I muttered from the back.

“No! No! No! This is where all the gays and druggies are,” she exclaimed.

“This is where I live,” I explained, hoping she’d realize that the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

“No, no. This is a bad area. You just can’t live here.” She put the pedal to the metal, attempting now to move me from my apartment. The buck stopped there.

“Judge. I really live back there,” I insisted. We were at the corner of Spruce and Broad, three blocks past my humble home. Maybe she really was kidnapping me and Evan was in on it, too. Torture for having done a less than stellar job on the Nelson memo.

“Fine. But you do realize you live amongst prostitutes and drug dealers,” she announced with disgust. Evan nodded in disapproving horror. But I couldn’t be bothered. She’d finally stopped and I was out of there faster than you could say Independence Center.

Walking back, I noticed my overalled friend talking to a handsome middle-aged man in a BMW sedan. He was always talking to men in cars. Come to think of it, there were always skinny guys lurking around the corner. And my neighbor upstairs always had men coming and going from his place. I’d just figured he was way more popular than me. I guess I’d never considered why he was more popular.

OMG! Maybe the judge was right? Was he—along with all the other loitering men on my block—selling drugs? Sex? Both? At that moment, I noticed Mr. Overalls accepting some cash from the driver before getting in on the passenger side. They sped off. Could it be that I lived in the Red Light District of Philly? No wonder my rent was so cheap. I called James, who thankfully was home.

“Hey, can you meet me outside, right now?” I asked compulsively.

“Is everything OK?”

“Just come outside, OK?”

“OK, be down in a minute.” James came out moments later, in his after-hours uniform—jeans, sweatshirt, tennis shoes. “What’s going on? You’re home early,” he commented.

“Yes. The judge drove me home. Did you know we lived in a prostitution drug circle?” I implored. James shook his head, confused. I pointed to the posse of skinny men. “Look. Those guys are always there. Random cars pull up and stop and talk to them. Sometimes they get in. And that guy who lives upstairs in our building always has men coming over.”