You’d probably never notice him, unless you were from the neighborhood. Or a customer. Or a cop.

If you bothered to stay and watch, the first thing you’d notice is that he never moves from the corner. That’s because it’s his. Like a predator protecting a fresh kill, no one is taking it from him. That tiny piece of grey real estate is his.

He’s wearing the latest ghetto nation fashion. The so called ‘ice cream’ jacket, a multi-colored urban hooded sweatshirt. This jacket is a badge of honor worn with criminal pride and privilege. It’s a shroud of street cred and hustled wealth.

It’s a frigid and windy day, the air stings as you breath. But he’s out here standing his corner. Making bank. Anyone else, even the cops who work outside against him, have enough common sense to run inside a diner for a cup of coffee. But he can’t leave. He’s got to stand his ground for the entire shift. Gloves are out. They’re too cumbersome for his lightning quick hand-to-hand transactions. His fingers must be numb by day’s end. Then again, all those greenbacks might keep them warm.

His white and blue baseball cap is brand new, the gold authenticity sticker still on the rigid brim. Left there on purpose. He probably can’t name three starters on the team. Again, just a symbol of money and drug profit.

Dark, pre-stressed, preposterously baggy jeans spill down over the latest Timberlands. Both fresh from the local urban outfitter. Dress attire for the ‘hood. He may not have an office with a view, or a union, or even a health plan. But he has a  business.

And business is good.

But the most important part of the ensamble, the one he would never leave home without, is his game face. The street sneer.

If you’re a customer, his face stays impassive, indifferent. He’s not looking for friends. Strictly business. If you’re a cop, cruising by like a shark and letting him know you know, you’ll get a different variation. Mildly defiant, locking eyes for a heartbeat, but not looking for a fight. There’s money to be made. He’ll always break contact first, but keeps the squad car in his peripheral vision. Just in case the shark is hungry.

Should you be a competitor? A rival dealer looking to expand your own kingdom of corners?

All bets are off.

His chin juts up and out, eyes glaring down his nose with nostrils flared. Legs akimbo and feet planted like skyscaper cornerstones. An animal defending his den. His arms are in motion and he talks more with his hands than with his mouth. There’s a weapon nearby if needed. Not on him, of course. The stupid ones carry weapons on them, the ones who get locked up.

Not on him, but close.

He’s a drug dealer. And this is his corner.