Bob Reilly

The Jury is Still Out on This One I could hear the animal-like cries of pain even before my car door was opened. “Hurry! We’ve got to get this man to the emergency room. He’s losing blood.” The man who was shouting urgent instructions to rush to the hospital was simultaneously spreading out a paint tarp across my back seat. He then loaded the injured person face down on top of the tarp. The wounded man in the back was screaming uncontrollably. His left leg was wrapped thickly with cloth and tape.

“Screw Your Blessing, I Want That!” “Hey man, can I clean your windshield?” The enthusiastic young man approached my car from the left side with a big smile. The all-too-familiar city scene. Squeegee in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. I then noticed a fellow team member approaching from the right side with a squeegee and bottle. Since the traffic light had just turned red, I figured I had a few minutes to talk with these two street entrepreneurs.

Dat & Dys Function “No, I didn’t. That’s not true and you know it you son-of-a-bitch.” This is how the couple entered the car. I sensed there was some nasty stuff going down as I watched them leave the building and walk toward the street. They were both shouting at each other, hands pushing and flames rising. “Get your hands off me. Get away from me before I slam you hard.” The woman shouted as the man tried to move toward her side of the back seat. “I’m sick of your shit! You’re a tired lying bitch.