At the corner of Milk Street and Cookie Avenue, I’d like to build an old-fashioned shop selling cookies.
Kids could come there after school, buy cookies, and dip them in milk while doing homework.
Parents from the community could act as tutors or babysitters.
Instead, there’s a crackhouse.
Sure, there’s kids there, but they’re not doing their homework. They’re acting as lookouts for cops or rival gangs.
I pull up with my milk truck, get out, and walk up to the door.
I pick up the empty milk bottles, put down fresh, and knock.
At least they pay in cash.