POOR IS A DIRTY WORD

Neve pushed back into the corner of the sourly ramshackle room, pulling her knees close to her chest as she huddled alone for warmth and a faux sense of security. Hunger stole over her and thoughts of cold misery were enhanced by the pain of an empty stomach. She had pan-handled for most of the morning and in the late afternoon she went tricking to get low. Her head nodded sedately as she continued pulling herself back from the sleep she was falling into. When she was on the nod all other concerns drifted away. Fear was replaced by the sink, a falling away from the world and its hardness. Everything softened, twisted, swirled, and faded as she sank and chased her nightly escape. A heroine cocoon warmed her into sleep and shut the door on a harsher place to exist.

She woke drowsy, dry mouthed, and looking around through unfocused eyes for a half empty bottle of water that she kept beside her bedding. She pulled hard on the room temperature water, letting it soothe her throat and cracking lips. She was immediately hungry. Her first thought of the day was usually about getting money for her nightly fix, but this morning hunger, having been left unsatisfied the night before, assaulted her awareness until she was forced to attend to the demand. She scratched around her mess of possessions for whatever loose change she had left over from the street-work of yesterday. Coins jingled an increasingly happier tune as the pile grew in her palm, accompanied by the rumbling, dulcet tones of her stomach. When she was finished searching she had twelve dollars and thirty five cents. She considered all of the fast food options available to her for that price. She could buy a value meal at most places, or she could hit the supermarket and buy some bread and fillings, maybe even half of a roasted chicken, maybe not. It would be tight. She weighed how long she would need to pan handle to get enough for more than one meal against how hungry she was right now. Was it better to earn more now and buy in some bulk or buy less now and not be murderously hungry for the next few hours? As with most things in Neve, immediate escape from discomfort drove her will and breaking her fast became her goal.

Neve now moved to the beat of a Skrillex album that played through her ten year old, cracked-screened IPhone, nodding her head and moving to the organized frenzy of rising tones and thumping repetition until the beat dropped and the music flipped a switch in her that drove her body to bounce on auto pilot. She kept her movements subtle, being in a supermarket isle did not afford a place to shamelessly trip over the light fandango, but she still loved to move to a beat and cared more for her small pleasure than for any sour looks she might draw. She knew how she appeared. Dishevelled and dirty faced. Worn and soiled blue jeans topped by a long-sleeved black and red T-shirt were all she walked around in lately. It had become too much trouble to go to the shelters and do laundry. Armando would go to the local shelters nearly every day to sell Smack and she still owed him for three fixes. If she was to run into him he would make her pay what she owed either on her knees or on her back and Armando was never gentle. He liked to punch and leave bruises. He liked the cries of pain that she gave him. He liked his blowjobs bloody. So she avoided the few shelters that were left to the homeless until she could find enough money to pay for what she had used. She would have to roll a Trick tonight and hope she would find more than five dollars in his wallet like she had the last time. Bouncing her way up to the express aisle, she carelessly tossed a loaf of white bread, a packet of Bologna, and a packet of cheese slices onto the cashier’s mini-conveyer belt letting her music block out the chattering conflagration of the supermarket. The cashier scanned and packed the three items into a plastic bag and spoke to Neve, holding out a hand for cash. It totalled just over ten dollars and she poured a handful of coins onto the counter in front of the cashier. A petite, red haired teenage girl looked at the pile of coins splashed out before her in frustration then began counting them methodically. She counted out the exact amount and shoved the remaining coins back towards Neve without a word, but sent a judgemental look her way before turning to put the coins into her cash draw. Neve felt the heat of that look. It was something she could not help but take personally. She was certain everyone else saw her as she told herself she was. Worthless! That was the word she heard spoken every moment of every day. She heard it in every refusal to give a coin, in every one of the nightly leers she got from the men looking to use her as a slab of meat to stuff their cocks into. She felt it nailed home as truth every time spiked her arm and slipped away into a fantastic escape. She felt it in every bruise she took from a rough trick, tasted the word in every vile mouthful of cum she spat out, and heard it echo throughout the solitude of her hovelled squat. She was nowhere close to understanding that it was her voice, and only hers, shouting the word. She lived in the minds of those who passed her in the street, divining her value to the world through the fun-house mirrors of her self-absorption.

The day took on a less apprehensive feel to it once Neve had eaten. She had been noticing her clothes starting to slip from her narrowing body. Being underfed and suffering borderline-malnutrition, Neve had the appearance of any other player in the long line of homeless Americans infesting the streets of San Antonio, providing a warning example for housed and employed citizens to turn away from, and be grateful they are not victims of. It was as much a deterrent against unemployment as life in a prison cell is against murder. And like prison, once you are in, getting out was truly a bitch to be reckoned with.

“Sir, cou…?” A walking sneer in a grey suit passed by as Neve turned to the next person exiting the Walmart Supercentre. The crowd in Balcomes heights was known for being less tolerant of pan handlers even to the point of calling the police at times, but it was too far to get to any other store without a fare for the bus. Walking distance would be defining her playing field for the day until she could make some more scratch. A forty-something soccer dad walked out next with a boxed stand-fan under one arm. “Excuse me Sir, could you spare some change please?” She pushed her grimy face into his visage until he noticed she was speaking to him. Annoyed by this, the man stepped aside mouthing Fuck off, junkie as he passed, but did not say it aloud. Neve heard it anyway. “Ok, well, God bless!” She threw it at the back of his head in her most genuine voice. She felt a surge of victory when she saw him slow a moment and cringe at her words, then continuing on his way. That was one thing she had put into her tool box. The understanding that people didn’t know how deal with a smile in response to a sneer, a blessing in response to an insult, or a thank you in response to a no. It always generated guilt. While this knowledge was comforting and gave her a sense of power, even if small, it rarely made anyone change their mind or turn around and give over some money. It was little more than her consolation prize. The day wore on as the collection of coins grew in her pockets. She had her hit for the day sorted out before lunch. It seemed like it was going to be a good day so Neve stayed put and hoped for the best. By the end of business she had made nearly forty dollars and she was in a good mood despite the withdrawal sickness making itself known. Cold sweating and shivers began to undo her as she hurried to her pick up spot on Dawson street just down from the Sanctuary homeless shelter in Dignowty Hill.