A young man carrying the scent of Listerene fills the room, he is twenty eight and at least a full foot taller than me. Handsome but slightly bewildered. His name he says is "JR", as he grips my hand tighter than death, "I was going to write you a letter, if that isn't too forward". He has seen me before, passed me silently on the street, but half drunk and about to leave town, gives him the courage to tell me that he likes my eyes. I am afraid, and trying to shuffle through these unexpected confessions without letting my fear emerge bird like and frail. He could break my hand as easily as tossing a coin into the air and calling heads. Recognizing that my body is small and fragile rarely happens and when it does I feel as though I have been smashed against a wall and the truth is spilling out of me thick and slippery.
Some of the older Chinese men think I am a prostitute. There are sly sideways glances, and suggestive attempts to catch my attention. At times they will be brave enough to point curled fingers at baggy crotches, an action that is difficult to ignore or pretend innocence. In those moments I feel as though I am trapped in a Tom Waits song, something tragic, perverse, gritty, beautifully written, and haunting.
I can't remember every name. I agree to let one of the ladies help me out in the shop. She is frustrated because she needs to do volunteer work and no one will let her. She thinks it is because her two front teeth have rotted into small sharp nubs. She is probably right. Her attempts at starting some form of church in the alley have failed, the reception she tells me was not favorable. There are too many people trying to sell God, when everyone else seems to just be able to find him. Today I feel as though God has most certainly abandoned this place.
A man with his shirt unbuttoned and the dirtiest chest I have even seen gives me a plant that is almost clinging to this life. When he leaves I watch hundreds of tiny baby cockroaches move like a living carpet along the empty branches. It is I suppose the thought that counts and I am thinking this poor bastard is going straight into the alley. I feel a moment of regret and then a moment of self preservation. You do what you can. I am given gifts almost on a daily basis.
Some of the older Chinese men think I am a prostitute. There are sly sideways glances, and suggestive attempts to catch my attention. At times they will be brave enough to point curled fingers at baggy crotches, an action that is difficult to ignore or pretend innocence. In those moments I feel as though I am trapped in a Tom Waits song, something tragic, perverse, gritty, beautifully written, and haunting.
I can't remember every name. I agree to let one of the ladies help me out in the shop. She is frustrated because she needs to do volunteer work and no one will let her. She thinks it is because her two front teeth have rotted into small sharp nubs. She is probably right. Her attempts at starting some form of church in the alley have failed, the reception she tells me was not favorable. There are too many people trying to sell God, when everyone else seems to just be able to find him. Today I feel as though God has most certainly abandoned this place.
A man with his shirt unbuttoned and the dirtiest chest I have even seen gives me a plant that is almost clinging to this life. When he leaves I watch hundreds of tiny baby cockroaches move like a living carpet along the empty branches. It is I suppose the thought that counts and I am thinking this poor bastard is going straight into the alley. I feel a moment of regret and then a moment of self preservation. You do what you can. I am given gifts almost on a daily basis.
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