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"All right," the woman hollers.
He points out an apartment complex where a mother left her kids home alone so she could prostitute herself. According to news reports, the kids ate the mother's crack cocaine. "People like that, I don't have any compassion for," he says of the mother.
Hookers wearing flannel coats and skullcaps, zigzagging down the sidewalk on Independence Avenue, wave as he drives past.
"We've got, like, the ugliest fucking streetwalkers in the nation. They all look like they should be unloading a truck or something," he gripes.
"There's no fucking work ethic among crooks and thieves anymore," Smith laments. "Maybe that's why I got out of it. Nobody takes pride in their job."
"My second-favorite blighted area is the trailer park, the Mayfair," Smith says as he drives along U.S. Highway 40. "It's a gem. It's the crown jewel of trailer parks. There's not another like it."
The Mayfair and the adjoining Bunker Hill mobile-home park are, Smith says, "twin venereal warts on 40 Highway."
He pulls into the Mayfair and points to the rusted, nearly unreadable sign in front.
"It's right out of Psycho or something. Out of the two, the Mayfair is probably a little less shitty than Bunker Hill. This is when you're moving up — you move from Bunker Hill to the Mayfair. It's got a good, permanent smell of dog shit around here."
Smith shows me the "high-rent road," a short entry road of trailers that aren't completely trashed.
"The really shitty stuff starts on the backside," Smith promises.
He pulls back onto Highway 40 and drops into Bunker Hill.
It looks like a tornado ripped through the park. Garbage is strewn across the dirt lots. Torn-down walls and insulation are scattered in another lot. So is a mattress.
"This is a real shithole. Maybe that Dutchman Travel Trailer is the only inhabitable thing in here," he says of a newish trailer parked on the edge of the court.
Smith drives past a trailer butting up against a metal shed.
"It's one thing to live in a shitty area and be poor," Smith says. "It's another to make it rattier."
Smith drives to the end of the trailer court. He has been spotted.
"As soon as they got out and saw this car coming, they were rubbernecking," Smith says of the people who live here. "But they'll never fuck with me. I'm telling ya. They think I'm probably a cop. Who else is going to fucking come in here?"
A man peeks around the corner of his trailer as Smith drives slowly past.
Smith sees life in places that look like they don't have a future. Now, he's facing his own uncertain future.
His wireless-testing job will likely end in January or February, so he's looking for work. He worries that potential employers won't be able to see past his rap sheet.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," he says. "I know what I'm not going to do. I'm not going to start running around with two wheelers, running off with ATMs and shit."
Meanwhile, parts of the city that seem depressing don't depress him.
"I'm not happy for somebody else's fucking misfortune," he says. But seeing somebody stick a trailer on the end of a utility shed? "It cheers me up."
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