Itinerant
chicago, illinois
Everyone passes by quickly on the streets, completely ignoring her questions and pleas and her desperate hands. Her faded blue hair hangs stringy in her face, the oil on the roots making the naturally light brown color seemingly darker. Anxiety and anguish pour a little more freely from every pore as the rejections and avoidances increase.
“May I have fifty cents please?” “I need to make a phone call, may I borrow some money?” “Excuse me, sir!” “Excuse me, ma’am!” “May I borrow some money please?” “I need to call my parents…”
The dejected feeling welling inside her becomes physical in the corners of her brown eyes, wet distress wills to overflow any moment.
She regrets everything now. When she first left, everyone she knew, everyone she met on the streets, they all told her she’d regret her decisions soon enough and here it is. It’s taken longer than any of them predicted, though, exactly 743 days. Her beautiful skin has aged much more quickly than it should have, hanging loose in places where it should be tight for at least another five years. Her eyes have sunken and her lips have thinned. Her chest has hollowed and her thighs have retreated into themselves. Her nails are all chipped or chewed, with one of her pinkies bent in a rather peculiar way from that time she broke it but couldn’t get it fixed. It doesn’t bother her too much, except that it doesn’t close as strongly as it used to, usually an inch away from all the other fingers of the left hand. She likes to joke that it’s her body’s way of hanging on to some class and etiquette - it‘s all about humor, after all, that‘s the only way to truly survive out here.
But she does admit it now that she regrets it fully. She probably regretted it only a week after she left, but she couldn’t give in to her family then. She had to give them time - time to what? Miss her? Love her? Mourn her? She’s not even sure what her ultimate goal had been anymore, but she’s sure that they don’t feel anything near to what she’s felt for the past two years, nothing near to what she’s endured.
The tears have flooded now, the salty water making streaks down her filthy face.
“May I” hiccup “please” hiccup and sob “bor-bor” a longer, drawn out sob “borrow some mon-” she can’t even finish her somber requests anymore. She dismally withdraws from the hurrying crowd to the wooden fence blocking off an alleyway. She slams her tightly balled fists against the chipping structure, tears mixing with sobs mixing with the buzz of the city. She turns her back against the fence and slides to the floor where she stares longingly to the sky, sending out prayers as she’s been doing for the last three months. She prays for a savior. She prays for hope. She just prays for some goddamn sleep. It’s always easier to handle this situation when she isn’t conscious of it.
She finishes her prayers by slamming her aching head against her knobby knees. Then she does it again. And again. And she doesn’t stop until there’s a clinking by her feet, one silver coin pegging her holey shoe and the other coming to a stop right beside her curled up frame. Whoever dropped the two quarters didn’t stop and doesn’t stand out when she looks into the crowd. They’re all so faceless and so careless. None of them have any idea.
She quickly grabs the coins and rushes to the payphone by a small pizzaria. The dial tone is sweet music to her ears, vibrating into her soul a small glimmer of anticipation. She presses the first three numbers with easy, but the remainders take effort.
This is admitting defeat.
She wipes stray tears still falling from her eyes before smashing her frail finger against the last four digits with sure precision - she can‘t afford to mess this up. The phone rings. Then rings. Then rings.
She cries out instantly, the sounds and voice on the other end too much to bear.
bee-ee-eeep. “I’m sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be completed at this-”
She moves the phone from her ear to her pulsating eyes, her blood pumping wildly behind them. Her battered knuckles, squeezed to a ghostly white, push the soaking and dribbling orbs even further into her skull.
Pressing the phone into the receiver, sponsoring another rigid sob, her limbs begin to shake and her sunken eyes turn her vision to a blurred mess of fast moving figures and twirling black streaks. Her legs can barely haul her weight away from the machine before she slumps against a dingy brick wall covered in layers of grafitti.
They told her, warned her, that she couldn’t make it.
Yet they never tried to actually stop her from leaving…
“May I have fifty cents please?” “I need to make a phone call, may I borrow some money?” “Excuse me, sir!” “Excuse me, ma’am!” “May I borrow some money please?” “I need to call my parents…”
The dejected feeling welling inside her becomes physical in the corners of her brown eyes, wet distress wills to overflow any moment.
She regrets everything now. When she first left, everyone she knew, everyone she met on the streets, they all told her she’d regret her decisions soon enough and here it is. It’s taken longer than any of them predicted, though, exactly 743 days. Her beautiful skin has aged much more quickly than it should have, hanging loose in places where it should be tight for at least another five years. Her eyes have sunken and her lips have thinned. Her chest has hollowed and her thighs have retreated into themselves. Her nails are all chipped or chewed, with one of her pinkies bent in a rather peculiar way from that time she broke it but couldn’t get it fixed. It doesn’t bother her too much, except that it doesn’t close as strongly as it used to, usually an inch away from all the other fingers of the left hand. She likes to joke that it’s her body’s way of hanging on to some class and etiquette - it‘s all about humor, after all, that‘s the only way to truly survive out here.
But she does admit it now that she regrets it fully. She probably regretted it only a week after she left, but she couldn’t give in to her family then. She had to give them time - time to what? Miss her? Love her? Mourn her? She’s not even sure what her ultimate goal had been anymore, but she’s sure that they don’t feel anything near to what she’s felt for the past two years, nothing near to what she’s endured.
The tears have flooded now, the salty water making streaks down her filthy face.
“May I” hiccup “please” hiccup and sob “bor-bor” a longer, drawn out sob “borrow some mon-” she can’t even finish her somber requests anymore. She dismally withdraws from the hurrying crowd to the wooden fence blocking off an alleyway. She slams her tightly balled fists against the chipping structure, tears mixing with sobs mixing with the buzz of the city. She turns her back against the fence and slides to the floor where she stares longingly to the sky, sending out prayers as she’s been doing for the last three months. She prays for a savior. She prays for hope. She just prays for some goddamn sleep. It’s always easier to handle this situation when she isn’t conscious of it.
She finishes her prayers by slamming her aching head against her knobby knees. Then she does it again. And again. And she doesn’t stop until there’s a clinking by her feet, one silver coin pegging her holey shoe and the other coming to a stop right beside her curled up frame. Whoever dropped the two quarters didn’t stop and doesn’t stand out when she looks into the crowd. They’re all so faceless and so careless. None of them have any idea.
She quickly grabs the coins and rushes to the payphone by a small pizzaria. The dial tone is sweet music to her ears, vibrating into her soul a small glimmer of anticipation. She presses the first three numbers with easy, but the remainders take effort.
This is admitting defeat.
She wipes stray tears still falling from her eyes before smashing her frail finger against the last four digits with sure precision - she can‘t afford to mess this up. The phone rings. Then rings. Then rings.
She cries out instantly, the sounds and voice on the other end too much to bear.
bee-ee-eeep. “I’m sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be completed at this-”
She moves the phone from her ear to her pulsating eyes, her blood pumping wildly behind them. Her battered knuckles, squeezed to a ghostly white, push the soaking and dribbling orbs even further into her skull.
Pressing the phone into the receiver, sponsoring another rigid sob, her limbs begin to shake and her sunken eyes turn her vision to a blurred mess of fast moving figures and twirling black streaks. Her legs can barely haul her weight away from the machine before she slumps against a dingy brick wall covered in layers of grafitti.
They told her, warned her, that she couldn’t make it.
Yet they never tried to actually stop her from leaving…
♠ ♠ ♠
the end