Words Have Power, They Are Magic Pt 8
I stood in the Greyhound terminal looking at a big board of arrivals and departures. There were buses going anywhere and everywhere. The city bus dumped me here about an hour ago and other than using the restroom, sneaking a gulp of two from my bottle while in the stall, I had been standing looking at this board. I did not know where to go. I did not care but the ticket seller would want a destination, so I stood and looked. New Jersey? I didn’t know. I didn’t care.
I turned around and looked at the buses. Maybe one would stand out and help me make a decision. I knew one thing that I didn’t want to go back into a city. As I scanned the line of greyhounds and private charters, I saw her. She stood with one hip jutting out, popping some gum, and curly brown cascading down her back. She wore a very short skirt, almost obscene; I wanted her to bend over. Did she have panties on? Her spandex top barely contained her ample breasts. She turned her head and I could see her face. She had lots of makeup on, but her features told me she was probably better looking without the makeup.
As I watched her, two men in uniform approached her. I thought nothing of it. She was a working girl after all. However, it soon became apparent that they were not looking for a date but were intent on removing her from the bus terminal. Her arms were waving and she had papers in one hand. I watched. It was a good diversion and I would have stayed out of it until one of the uniforms grabbed her arm and took her to her knees. I sprung into action and trotted over there.
“Honey” I said as I reached the trio, “what is happening, what is wrong?”
That last part I directed to the uniforms as well. They informed me that prostitutes were not welcome in the terminal, that they would not tolerate her kind there. I acted all indignant and told them they had no right calling my love a prostitute. The officer let go of her arm and stood back. The working girl stood up and rubbed her arm. I was afraid she was going to break and run so I put my arm around her shoulder and drew her in close, as a lover would.
I informed the officers that this was my love and we were traveling, home to mother (she supplied that information). They apologized and walked away. As soon as they had disappeared in the crowd, she shrugged me off.
“Who the hell are you?” she confronted me. “Don’t think you get nothing free just because you helped me.”
I put my hands up and backed up a little. “I ain’t no one. Just thought you didn’t need to be harassed. If they took you, you might have missed your bus.”
“How you know I taking a bus,” she looked at me sideways one eye squinting. It was cute.
“You have tickets.” I pointed at them in her hand. “In fact you have two tickets, you waiting on someone?
“Yea. She aint going to show though. I was hoping, but she going to keep on the streets.”
“Can I buy it from you?” I asked hopefully.
“Its $15 for a blowjob and $20 for regular and anything kinky we talk about. We have to figure out where though.”
“Not that!” I exclaimed, “I don’t want to have sex with you! “
She tossed her head, her eyes blazed, and her body became animated “Why the hell not? Ain’t I good enough for you? Or do you like the boys or maybe the shemales. Don’t want sex with me I am sure. Oh do NOT tell me you like the kids! Maybe you don’t got the money? Too much for you, cheap bastard!”
“NO!” I cut her off. “I want to buy your extra ticket. Shit, calm down”
“My ticket? My ticket?” Suddenly she got it, her body quit moving in a dozen ways at once and lowering her voice she said “Sure why not?”
We exchanged money, I am sure I paid twice what the ticket was worth, but who cared. As I stood there with her, she eventually started to tell me her story. It turned out that at age 12 she had decided that her parents were evil and only wanted to hold her back from living life. Raised on a farm, her closest neighbors were miles away and there were no children. School was her only contact with kids her own age and they were not interested in a farm kid. Townies, those kids who lived in town where the popular ones. Having no friends and no prospects , or at least no prospects in her 12year old mind, she decided to run away.
The first person she encountered was a trucker who brought her into new York, buying her story that she was on her way home. She paid a price for that ride ,though, and learned about pleasing a man with her mouth. He gave her a few bucks when he dropped her off and she walked into the city. She found her way to Central Park and did not even make it a night before she was gobbled up by a pimp.Her pimp was every cliché you could think of, flashy dresser, abusive, maybe slightly crazy and she ended up in the hospital several times after being beat up by him. His idea of birth control was to punch you in the stomach until you miscarried. He didn’t want to spend money on abortions. She was with him until she was 14 then sold to another pimp. And then another and then another. She was now 30 years old. She had been on the streets for 18 years, the last three on her own, no pimp, she was too old to maintain.
She had been robbed, beaten, sometimes within inches of her life, she was stabbed once that left scars on her back and shot in the leg in a drive by shooting.She had told me all this with her eyes looking at her wringing hands in her lap. She finished up by finally looking at me and saying
“And now I quit. I am going home to my mom’s. She thinks I have been a model. I am going to tell her the truth. The truth I just told you. The whole “going-straight-to-hell” disgusting truth.”
She continued to stare at me like I, myself, should be disgusted and maybe even shocked. I laughed at her. Then I told her my story. All of it. Including the part about the words having power, having magic. She didn’t laugh at me. In fact, it seemed as if she was really listening. It felt good to tell someone my story. But it was also a little draining. I needed a drink. I open my backpack and took out my bottle, I took a big swig and recapped it. I was about to put it away when she nudged me and nodded at t eh bottle. I looked at it for a minute, it was half full and I didn’t want to share, but I shrugged and gave it to her. She took a big swig, too big, then handed it back. I measured the remaining liquid with my eyes I was going to have to get more. As I put it away, she looked at me and said
You know you are crazy, insane bat shit nut-so. You know that right?”
She laid her head to the window , closed her eyes and feel asleep.
She pissed me off. I was no more crazy than she was. Or anyone else. I told her the truth. I had evidence. I was not crazy. She didn’t know the power. I did. I after all these years figured it out. I think I knew how to use the power right. Anger, negative made negative. All those smoldering bodies on the porch of an apartment building in New York proved that. Love, positive made positive. My Aunt Sally for example. She was overweight, obese, and it was killing her. My words prevented her from suffering any further. I wrote the words with love and she died gossiping , smashed by a truck of donuts, two things she loved the most. So even though it was tragic, she died she died happy. Hernando too, he never had to live long enough to find out about his wife, the witch.
Oh yes, the whore sitting next to me to be better watch herself. She had no reason to be calling me names. To be judging me. I certainly had not judged her. In fact I had helped her, if it wasn’t for me she would have missed the bus. Maybe she really didn’t understand. She could not know. She did not have the best of life anyway. I need to calm myself. I grabbed my bottle again and let the golden liquid warm up my belly and my heart. Nope, she could not know. I need to give her a little time Maybe explain to her again. She needed to be wary. Words. Words have power, they are magic