Life on Holt Street

It is almost hilarious if it were not be the state of our economy.

Petty details of a fourth of million or a million as a cutoff for a tax hike, as if that is of any consequence to the person who rents a babies’ social security number from a mother whose “season” is tax-time.

I was a white man living in a rental property in what Realtors would call a Transitional Neighborhood.

For those who can understand- that is Yuppie Speak for an upside-down house across the street from Fred Sanford’s duplex, complete with pit bull on a chain and frequent socializing.

Junk vehicles, frequent loud parties and mud were across the street from the monthly mortgage payment on a upside-down house on a street that has gas lights in every yard.

That was your dream home, and you chose to buy.

So begins the story of “Life on Holt Street”.

I was not the buyer, nor the developer who was completing a spec house on the street with gas lights.

I was the neighbor of “Fred” -a registered sex offender, man who spent 28 years in Raleigh’s State Owned Hotel for double homicide, and a self proclaimed King of his domain. That included having the pit bull named Roscoe to my back steps, my water hose filling his washing machine (always a cold wash).

I tried to fit in, pay the proper respect to His Excellency, and the court which became fast friends as neighbors, even letting him use my Lincoln, since I was not able to drive.

He has since been returned the Big House for another 10 year stretch.

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