Part 11: Transition in Isolation

During my first weeks and months in Baltimore I felt strangely disconnected and disoriented by the Woodlawn neighborhood that had been randomly selected for me to settle in.

Security Boulevard is a broad street with nondescript box-like buildings; Security Square Mall, the Social Security Administration complex, strip malls and car dealerships. There was no sense of a neighborhood for me. There were no familiar landmarks, nothing that triggered a memory, nothing of interest with which to connect.

The wide-open suburban spaces made me feel uncomfortable. There was little to see or do on foot in the area around Rolling Road and Security Boulevard, or even by bicycle.

It was during my jaunts through the streets of downtown that Baltimore captured my heart and mind. The city had more energy, more visual detail, and was more amenable to exploration. I loved the old buildings, and the mixture of hisoric preservation along with new development.

Unlike many cities I have known, Baltimore had a vibrant urban center. I spent a lot of time in museums and the Enoch Pratt Free Library, with those dazzling gilded ceilings and the inspired view of the Basilica of the Assumption across Cathedral Street. I explored Mount Vernon, Fells Point, South Baltimore, the markets and alleys reeking with history.

I no longer had a home in Memphis, and I didn’t feel at home here. I hadn’t been accepted into the Emergency Health Services program at UMBC. I felt out of place, as though I were still in transit. I didn’t know anybody except the Murrays and Louis, who owned the dry cleaners where I worked.

Louis was a kind and accomodating boss, and the dry cleaning business was no great strain. He trusted me to open and close the shop. But it still felt like somebody else's life. I wasn't sure where I was or why I was here.

After work I’d drop by Pebbles for a few $1 happy hour cocktails. Ordinarily, I don’t drink. I don’t particularly care for the buzz of alcohol. But I needed something to hammer down the isolation and loneliness.

With my brain swimming around inside my skull, I’d stumble through the field behind Chadwick Shopping Center to the Murray’s house. Back in my second-floor bedroom, I'd pound away at my vintage Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter – one of my few material possessions retained from Memphis - filling page after page with drunken rantings, some of which were stuffed into envelopes and mailed to friends.

Then I'd collapse into bed and read more Shock Trauma.