I thought I would have been a money guy, like Eric the personal injury guy, or Jerry the Mortician.
Turns out you can't Fuck Up properties held by old, black women; so I became landed, enamored by three black women.
There was the bnb in Nurseryland, Saint Philip.
Monies my 103-year old great aunt sent from Canada, before she contracted Alzheimer's built a 2-bedroom walk up plunk down in the center of Harris property. My mother's people.
There was a 2-bedroom walk in Black Rock Bathsheba, left to my grandfather's second wife by my father's father. She funded it with monies from Seagram's and tuitions from her brother's private school in Brooklyn.
And finally my sister-in-law's five-bedroom four bath Victorian childhood home, which she ran like a hotel.
All spinsters, no one put up with my oldest sister: not her brothers, nor her husband of six months in 1978.
It was all I could do to protect m daughters from her.
They were all benevolent enough to leave their properties to me.
