I never thought of the streets as dangerous per se.
“Ya get any fights? I bet you get a lotta fights don’t you?”
I really wasn’t a fighter but if he wanted to believe that, that was okay.
I looked like a tough street kid in my tattered and worn clothes. I had just finished delivering papers in the early morning. I wore a worn-out hooded sweatshirt under a hand me down overcoat. Bundled up against the winter cold , I looked bigger than the thin waif I was.
We came in the back door of Willy’s Bakery where the bakers were finishing up at about 6:30 AM.
The butter buns were hot out of the oven and had just been frosted.
We gave the bakers a paper and they gave us baked goods in exchange.
He looked at the big scorch mark on my sweatshirt and said, “What happened there, are you ok?”
“Yeah, I’m ok.” I replied.
“Well, listen, if you’re not ok, you let me know.”
I looked carefully and apprehensively at him. He was about 60, grey/white hair, unshaven.
He had a hard and worn look about him.