Thursday, March 10, 2005

[Real Life] Homeless Beaver In the Mission

She was on the corner wearing a purple tank top that came down mid-thigh. The rush-hour traffic swelled onto the street buzzing by her as she moved to her own tweaker beats. I was steadily approaching her, having just left an angry day of work, digging through the messenger bag that was slung across my torso. I intermediately looked up at her as I was getting out my sunglasses. She tracked my advance. Through the tank straps I could make out sagging sweet potato breasts resting on top of her drooping broad belly. Her feet were bare. Obvious dark cracks crawled up her heels to her ankles. The legs caught the sunlight in patches all the way up to where the tank top ended, reveling a highway of needle marks. She smiled a toothless grin, foam at the corners of her mouth. I could smell the urine of dozens of people on the Spring air. My mind raced with questions: how can you stand there barefoot in all this filth? do your marks itch? how long have you been a junkie? what do you charge for a fifty-fifty? Tugging down at the bottom of her top, she started letting out a soft whine. It grew more guttural as she flipped up her tank top reveling that she wasn't wearing panties. I was now to the side of her waiting for the crosswalk light to change. I couldn't help but look back over to her. She pulled up the swag of abdomen flesh reveling her patched dirty blond pubic hair. I let out a loud laugh and turn the brilliant kind of red reserved for Chinese New Year parades. The green man appeared on the pole across the street. I leapt off the curb, placed my hand over my mouth and laughed for another fifty feet. I fumbled for my cell phone and called the first number on speed dial to share the immediacy of this site. It was my mom's voicemail. I left her a message saying, "Hey you'll never believe what I just saw. A homeless beaver in the Mission. Call me."

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