Progress of a Sort

I was talking to a young man recently who is part of the drug trade here. 

I told him he should see if he could join the military and get out of town, make something of his life. 

I ran into him at the library a few days ago with his mother, and he told me he had gotten a call from a recruiter.

This morning I saw him walking and waved at him. He came over and we started talking in the middle of the street.

So you're joining up, I asked. 

Yeah, he said.

You're going to have to quit smoking, I told him, and he agreed. 

When I asked which service, he said he was actually applying to the police academy. 

That's a good job, I said. 

He agreed, and said his street friends would be astonished.

Another longtime resident of the street rode up on his bicycle and touched the young man on the shoulder. The bike rider appears to be a mid-thirties black man with a pretty rough, street appearance. We've never exchanged words and rarely make eye contact, but sort of maintain a limited awareness of one another's presence in a way that tacitly acknowledges that we inhabit two completely separate worlds.

I told the young man congratulations and started to walk away, when two bearded white men pulled up in an SUV.

"Where's the Mojo," the driver asked.

"I've got it," the young man said, and went toward the SUV, reaching into his shoulder bag.

"Y'all move away from there, go down the street. Don't disrespect that man's house," the bicycle rider said.

"I appreciate it," I said, and walked through my gate. 

The bike rider reiterated his statement and they all moved off down the street.