Week of People, Part 1: The Woman

2002-08-30 - 2:23 a.m.

This has been a week of people.

It started last weekend.

I was walking home, the downtown part of the walk, where there's lots of people going to work and starting their day, when I'm tired from the night, and from the gym (I lost a pound!), and just want to get. Through. The People.

The corner I was at wasn't particularly busy, and so when I heard the woman call out, I was pretty sure it was me.

I turned around and saw a plump black woman, probably in her mid-30s, though she was in the early stages of that old-look that comes from being homeless.

I stopped, and put on my, "I'm listening openly, stranger!" face. She approached and asked if I had any money. Her wallet had been stolen, and she had her rent money in it and -

"I don't have any money," I said. It was true. Until midnight tonight I was poor. Pookie and I rolled all of our change for groceries. I got paid enough, so we can buy food with -paper- money now.

"Oh." she said, looking disappointed. "Thanks for stopping though. Most white men - no offence - most white folks just walk by, they don't even notice me."

I believe it. I think most people walk by without even being aware that someone talked to them. I kind of -hope- it's complete oblivion, the oblivion that I sometimes find myself in, where I'm so lost in thought that I walk past long-time friends without noticing. It's probably not.

"Only the black folks pay attention, care for their own," she continued. "But I watch, and the white men, they just stop if they want sex. They'll give a white girl twenty dollars outside a strip club, if she has good breasts, but they won't give me nothin' unless I give them a blow job."

I realised then that, despite being maybe 50 pounds overweight, she was quite an attractive woman. Just that she was looking old and tired. She's probably given more than a few blowjobs to complete strangers.

"Hold on a second," I said, digging out my wallet. "I know I don't have any money, but I'll check, just in case." I was hoping for a miracle, one of those minor ones, that maybe there'd be a long-forgotten five in there.

Some East Indian or Pakistani people walked by.

"Them Pakis are the worst, though," she said. "Them and the Orientals. They won't give anyone anything if they aren't yellow."

I found a bus ticket. I've been walking everywhere for the last two months, hadn't even known I had it. I handed it to her, fumbling. "It's all I have."

She nodded, took it from me, and shook her head.

"It's tough, you know? Them Pakis, they're racist. They should look at us black folks."

"Well, you know...different cultures and, uh..." my liberal upbringing could not hold a candle to her monologue. She ran over it with her words.

"But, look, thanks for the ticket. It's good to know someone out there will actually stop for a minute."

"Yeah," I said. I took a half-step back, half-turned. "Well, good luck," I said, going back on my way. She backed up toward her begging spot, in the shade of the nearest building.

"I'll need luck," she answered, her voice raised over the people now walking between us. "Luck and some more generous white men like you!" She said that last without any rancor or irony, so I'm pretty sure she meant it. She spoke so frankly with me the whole time, I'm not sure if she's capable of sarcasm.

I walked home, realising that we'd never exchanged names.

Cheers,

The Magus

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