The Bee Hive

I was a poor black boy of twelve years old living amongst a thriving northeastern city while trying to co-exist within a few short blocks away from a predominantly black underworlds primal nesting grounds. I made it my daily routine habit to spy on, imagine and visit this bustling scene day or night, whenever it was possible.

As fate would have it, an oddly and seemingly majestic slice of real estate was carved out between the old railroad tracks and the cities original industrial zone. This man-made haven was also the divide between the black and white neighborhoods. And oddly enough it featured the typical kinds of establishments found throughout most Northern communities. The hub of this neighborhood featured grocery stores, various kinds of restaurants, hair salons, a few liquor stores, two bars, the local and store front churches, and one very spectacular jazz and super nightclub.

The local residents and police referred to this oasis of debauchery as the hustler’s hold; but those who staked it out as their daily heartbeat of frolic, lust, money and sin; they affectionately labeled it “The Bee Hive.”