by David Griffith.
The working class has always been considered the bottom of the social heap. While working as a carpet-layer in Houston, I used to live with several other people in the back of a mechanic garage on the west side. We used to play guitars at night, and there was always lots of beer drinking. Sometimes the people who worked in a fancy restaurant with a loading dock across the street would bring us a big box of seafood that was left over from the nightly buffet. Most of our neighbors lived in mini-warehouses down the street, and we called our area “the bottom,” because there was nowhere but up from there. One time my roommate fixed the crooked wheel on a shopping cart that a homeless guy was pushing by our place, as if it was a vehicle to be fixed at the garage. There was a girl named Jane who rode a bicycle, and always wore a football helmet when riding. We also fixed the tire on her bicycle. There were three prostitutes who lived in the mini-warehouses, and they were always bumming beers, cigarettes, or wanting a ride somewhere. One guy there would always announce his arrival into the parking lot by yelling “Panties on Down!” Another lady would always loudly announce her approach from down the street, shouting “Hi honey, how are you, I love you!” She often wanted kiss my cheek. Everybody called her “Round Brown,” because she was black and overweight. One day she was saying something about God and salvation, and I told her I didn’t believe in Jesus. She looked at me with horror and left. After she told Jane what I said, Jane would ride by holding out her hand with the middle finger up, facing straight ahead, with her football helmet on. In general, the people living in the bottom were more friendly than most of my neighbors when I lived in a suburb.
—from Struggling in Place: The Art of David Griffith, published by Lulu.com
