A Stroll Down Shakedown Street Caleb Estabrooks Published 11/15/03

“Doses! Molly!” a man calls out.

“Nuggets,” mutters a young woman.

“Ecstasy, mescaline,” I hear in the background.

Shakedown Street is more of a situation than it is a place. Looks like something from a Renaissance Era open market, not that I’ve been to one. It was on a dirt road surrounded by trees, it was lined with freely dressed men and women selling their wares. Some sell grilled cheese sandwiches, others sell narcotics but they are all part of the same subculture situation. A collage of individuals congregate in this place, they obey the same unwritten rules, yet most of these people haven’t met.

Young children play on a swing hanging from a tree as their mother pawns homemade garments. A few feet down the road is a man selling magic mushroom chocolates. I thought this was a novel idea so I stopped to talk with him a moment. A bit further down the path is a young man who has had too much. He leans too far to one side and falls off his folding chair. I helped him back up, and with help from his friends, we set him on the ground figuring it to be a bit safer. I walked on down the road; more color, and more people.

A parade of drummers and masqueraders came marching down the path. They stopped at an intersection where a small impromptu concert began. Young human butterflies fluttered about, dancers came with big smiles and more people in costume brought their energy to the crowd.

It didn’t take long for the mounted security to come in: “We must keep the road clear,” one of them roared. They were stern but friendly and the crowd dispersed.

-Caleb Estabrooks