The arabbers wanted to take BJ for one last ride.

Arabbing — selling fruits and vegetables from a horse-drawn wagon — is a centuries-old profession that is hanging by a thread in Baltimore.

Todd “Gready” Cornish can’t walk far without his oxygen tank. Willie “Cocky” Burnett needs a walker while he waits on a knee replacement. Norris “Lawrence” Mack still hawks fruit most days, walking 20 miles or more. He likes telling people he’s 65, but he’s actually 70.

At 36, Bilal “BJ” Abdullah was not just one of Baltimore’s last arabbers — he was one of the youngest.

On Tuesday, three police officers fatally shot Abdullah during a foot pursuit in West Baltimore. One police officer was shot in the foot. The attorney general’s office said officers fired after Abdullah pointed a gun at them. Body camera footage has yet to be released.

Abdullah hadn’t been actively arabbing at the time of the shooting.

The last time Abdullah arabbed was last summer, said Levar Mullen, 45, a part-time arabber who is desperately trying to keep the tradition alive.

Mullen said Abdullah was hawking fruit along Reisterstown Road when a car got too close. The driver missed the horse but clipped Abdullah’s wagon, breaking it.

However, Abdullah still came by the Carlton Street Stables, a place central to his life as an arabber, Mullen said. The stables are a remnant of a bygone era in urban America, when city blocks were built around stables and horses delivered practically everything.

Over time, cars and trucks replaced horses and the need for arabbers waned. Still, Black families kept the tradition alive, passing it on from one generation to the next.

Burnett, 74, said he started arabbing in 1960, when he was 10.

“There was nothing but arabbers,” he said. “The only thing you could do to make money was arabbing.”

Abdullah’s father was an arabber. But, by the time Abdullah started about two decades ago, the profession had been dying for decades. Carlton Street Stables is one of the last in Baltimore.

Tucked behind rowhomes and down an alley, the stables are easy to miss. But walk a little closer and the smell is unmistakable. On a hot day like Saturday, the scents of hay, mud and horse manure filled the air.

A pig sniffed at the ground in a pen, shaded by bamboo and trees. Horses snorted and flicked their tails. Across the pavement, nestled among the 1800s alley homes, stood the old stable with red doors. Inside its thick brick walls, the air was cool.

Outside lay evidence of arabbing: a couple of oranges, an apple and a pear that had fallen off a wagon.

Mullen, who manages the stable, was in constant motion. He owns four horses that live there: Pimp, Smoke, Michelle and Trevor.

“Damn, Michelle,” Mullen said as he scrubbed the dirt and hay from her coat. “You went right in there and rolled in it.”

Mullen needed Michelle to look nice. She would be pulling Abdullah’s casket.

By 10 a.m., sweat was already dripping from Mullen’s head and the temperature hadn’t hit 90 yet. Over the next two hours, Mullen and others brushed and shined the horses. He used a leaf blower on their manes. They cleaned out a wagon and laid down a blanket for Abdullah.

As the morning went on, people came by. Some asked to pet the horses. Others asked for a lighter. Some sat in the shade and told stories.

They talked about the difference between horses and ponies. They talked about arabbing. And they talked about Abdullah and the day he died.

To be an arabber, Mullen said, you have to be a people person and keep a level head, even if a customer loses their cool.

“That’s why we just really can’t understand what transpired during that time between him and the officers,” Mullen said. “Everybody know BJ.”

By noon, Mullen needed a fresh white shirt. The funeral was starting soon. He drove to Masjid Ul Haqq in Upton, where Abdullah’s funeral service was taking place.

A stable hand drove Michelle to the mosque, and when he tried to make a U-turn, the front axle fell off. The arabbers gathered, lifting the wagon to free Michelle. They put the wagon back on the axle and leaned down, trying to gauge the problem.

In some ways it was fitting, they said. An arabber’s wagon is always breaking down. And an arabber is always finding scraps of feedbags or a coat hanger to jury-rig a solution. Why would Saturday be different?

Mullen sipped a can of Dr Pepper and shook the wagon, testing its strength. It held, but Mullen didn’t feel comfortable putting Abdullah’s casket inside.

When the mourners emerged from the mosque, the casket went back to the hearse. Michelle, Mullen and the arabbers led the procession so that all the onlookers would know the deceased was a fruit man.

They walked about a mile, mostly along Pennsylvania Avenue, with Mullen hollering the arabber’s refrain, his voice pitching high and low and filled with emotion.

“Hey, fruit man, fruit man, fruit man, heeeeeere!”

They passed the street corner where police shot Abdullah and walked several more blocks before stopping at Retreat Street, near the site of a former stable.

The procession continued. Dozens of cars went by, on their way to see Abdullah’s body laid to rest.

Saturday felt like a last gasp for Baltimore’s arabbers.

They kept talking about who was keeping their tradition alive and pointing fingers at each other. Was it 70-year-old Mack, who wakes up at 5:30 a.m. so he can hawk fruit until 9 p.m.? Was it Mullen, who runs the stable and arabs on occasion?

And when did Abdullah stop arabbing?

“He never left,” Mack said, because no one leaves arabbing.

Even Burnett, with his busted knee, said he wasn’t done arabbing.

It’s something you always come back to, they said, and they thought Abdullah would, too.

His wagon, still broken, sits outside the Carlton Street Stables.

With Abdullah’s death, there’s one fewer man keeping the tradition alive. One fewer man bringing fresh produce to residents without a grocery store. One fewer fruit man in Baltimore.