HEART'S ON FIRE ... Tales of Love From the Street.
She walked like a moose, newly born, all gangly and falling, and then again not...
Her purse and her cigarette tossed from side to side, in an east side balancing act.Her course uncharted, led her into the street, where cars caressed her uncertainty,
And wolves looked on with licking tongues, watching, waiting, hungrily hoping.
I pulled over, although I am still not sure why, maybe I could help, but help what.
She opened the door, looked in and said "like some company...are you going far?".
I heard myself say "get in!" and wondered to myself what I was doing, then silence.
Her face is heavily pimpled, her legs are black and blue, her fingernails are...gone,
Like she had recently had to claw her way out of some desperate, deadly situation.
I haven't driven a block and I look over...she is slumped over and she is asleep.
"What now...?" My mind is drawing a blank, what the hell am I doing, I keep going.
"Just get her away from there...the wolves and the cars, and God knows what else"
I keep driving, Jesus, I am now beginning to feel like someone doing something wrong.
Christ, this is definitely not going to look good on my resume, God, what am I doing?
I find a parking space, about a mile or so away, and pull in quickly "so no one can see".
I hear a voice in my head say "And now...?"
"Umm...excuse me, are you OK?" I ask.
She stirs a bit, although still slumped and says "$25 for a hand job or $50 for a blow job".
"I don't want either...I just want to know you are OK...are you OK?" She is asleep again.
"You can't stay, I have got to go." I yell.
"You fucking owe me $25..." she says, "and drive me back!"
So this spontaneous rescue is not going quite like I had thought it would.
"I owe you nothing and you are getting out here."
She sits up straighter and says "you fucking pay me or else...!"
"I have got to admire her pluck", I think to myself.
"Or what?' I say with just a touch of a smile.
"What are you going to do..."I say, my curiosity now getting the best of me.
"I'll stick you with my purple tipped needle of death..."
Now I am not sure whether I have heard her right, or its my imagination, a poet?
She is fumbling with her ragged purse, and I am tempted to laugh but instead,
I say, "You will what?"
"Stick you with my needle" she says, "I have Aids",
I don't quite believe her, but I am willing to acknowledge its a great ploy.
"How long have you had it ?" I ask, "Four fucking years" she replies and shares
some of the details...which may explain her gait, and distressed physical condition.
I feel my heart begin to stir, and I look at her more closely and notice her eyes, and
her sweet, innocent and beautiful soul. and as if to break the connection, I ask her
"How old are you?" and she replies, "31". I ask again and she says "I am 24".
But the connection has already been made, and I can feel her heart and all its pain.
I embrace it. She starts to cry as I start the car to go back. "Here take this"...I say, and
give her what I have...she continues to sob, as we drive. "I felt your heart, and I know
you felt mine..." I say, as she is exiting the car, a block from where I picked her up.
"Love was here today" I yell as she is leaving. "I know", she softly replies and is gone.
________________________________________________________________________
There is, I believe, a place of judgement that assumes that the activities and behaviors of others..."what they do," is actually the same thing as..."who they are". It isn't!! This is especially so in the case of hookers, or even their Johns. My purpose, and the purpose of sharing this post, is that with enough love, grace and a little willingness we can all begin to rise above it. SNN
