We'll Fly Home, You And I

I walked down the midnight streets of Chicago looking for a client. I was running low on money and really needed something to eat, and I was without a jacket. The cold weather was returning, and if I didn't have cover I might die.

Another car slowed down next to me, the driver took one look and drove off. It was hard to be a prostitute at the young age of thirteen. The nice people think that you're lost and trying to find your way home, and the not so nice people want to rape you. And when you tell them that you're willing to have sex with them for money, they rape you anyway because they're broke. Just like you.

After another hour of walking back and forth on the side walk, over dramatically rocking my hips, I gave up and decided to head back to the park. The nights that I didn't have a customer, I would head down to the park and sleep in the trees. I had slept in alley ways coated with muck before, and they were more dangerous than staying on the side of the street.

I walked past a bar, deciding whether or not I should go in. There was a lot of business at bars and I had befriended the bartender. His name was Charlie. He was most likely in his twenties and would always give me a shot whenever I was feeling low. But I didn't know if I was up to it tonight.

Before I knew it, I had convinced myself to go in. It was dimly lit, and filled with cigarette smoke. Now there's something I hadn't gotten myself into yet. I knew if I ever got addicted to anything, it would cost me too much and I wouldn't be able to make it. As much as I would have loved to get high at least once, I didn't.

"Hannah!" Charlie called from behind the counter. "How're you holding up?" He asked. Charlie was my only friend. He had never given into my offers for a good time and even offered me some money once, but I refused to take it. Now that I look back on it, it wouldn't have been a bad idea.

"Good. It's empty out there tonight." He frowned at me. Charlie didn't like me selling myself off to men. He says it wasn't right. Ya, says the man who gives a thirteen year old alcohol.

"Why don't you just go to an orphanage? At least you'll have food, bed, and a place to live."

"Ya, and be bossed around. Also, imagine how heart broken I would be when families would come in and take the little toddlers while I would sit back and watch them leave, utterly happy, me knowing how I could never have that."

"Hannah, you know if I had the money I would adopt you myself, or at best let you come live with me, but I don't have the money to support you." I understood. He would have to buy more food and stuff for me.

"I'm better on the streets. It's where I came from, and it's where I belong. Can I have a beer?" He nodded, pouring one into a glass for me and sliding across the counter to me. "Show off," I muttered before taking a sip.

"Come on, just one drink!" I heard a drunken man practically yell a few seats down from me. He was probably trying to get a girl. I glanced over at Charlie who gave me a warning look, but I ignored it and began to scoot down to him, seat by seat.

"No, Frank. I've been sober for almost two years. I don't want to break it," said another man. Damn my luck. He wasn't looking for someone to sleep with.

"Just because you have one drink doesn't make you an alcoholic again. Come oooooon!!"

"I said no Frank, and that's final."

"But if that girl can have drink, surely you can!" My eyes widened. If anyone knew that Charlie had given me a drink, he could lose his job. I saw him duck underneath the counter out of my peripheral vision.

"What?" the man said. I saw the one named Frank spin around in his seat to face me.

"Wow," one of the others gasped from behind him. Mr. Sober got up from his seat and sat in the one next to me. He took the glass of beer and pushed it down to his friends.

"What do you think you're doing in a bar at one o' clock in the morning drinking alcohol at your age? You should be at home." He looked at me sternly.

"You're right I should," I replied sarcastically.

"Well why aren't you?"

"I don't have one." His face fell. His mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but nothing came out. "I-. . .Yo-. . . Did you run away? Or are you homeless?" One of his friends came over, carrying my beer, and sat down behind Mr. Sober.

"Homeless." I answered simply.

"You should go to an orphanage," the man behind him told me.

"That's what Charlie said."

"Who's Charlie?" Mr. Sober asked.

"The bartender here." Charlie stood up from his spot so he could be seen again.

"Way to blow my cover," he complained.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Why did you give her beer?" said Mr. Sober. Charlie looked confused.

"She asked for it." The way he said it made it sound more like a question. He rolled his eyes and let the subject drop.

"Why are you homeless?"

"You really want to know?" He nodded. "Well brace yourself for one long pathetic story that is my life."

_______________________________________________________________________