When A Street Is A House
When A Street Is A House is part of a collection entitled “I See You”, about people whose stories live in the shadows. I was downtown one day when I happened upon a woman establishing a home of her own. Delivery is another piece in the series.
Propped against a low wall outside the public library, a woman was putting on makeup, grooming herself as if for a date. With meticulous strokes, she applied eyeliner, mascara, face powder, lipstick; bright red lipstick. Actually, not such a bright red. Magenta red.
A ponytail was pitched haphazardly on the top of her head to keep her hair out of the way. She was completely absorbed, focused on her task, oblivious to passersby and loud traffic pulling up short at the busy intersection next to her spot.
Her jeans were just right, not too tight, with rhinestones layered on the front pockets. Beside her was a baby carriage, partly overflowing with soiled clothing, torn out pages of magazines, and various dirty plastic objects, perhaps randomly picked from garbage cans or the street.
Her hair looked clean, fluffy and soft. And she had on a quilted jacket, with no dirt or grease stains you’d expect from street living.
After she was fully made up, checked with a small pocket mirror she held at different angles to her face, she walked a few feet away, eyes turned inward. Then she went back and began rummaging inside a brown paper bag marked “groceries” poking out of the carriage. She shifted a few things and pulled out an open bag of potato chips.
Walking away again, but this time to another adjacent spot on the street, she began eating the chips, one by one, with a ruminative look on her face. She moved a little ways away and slightly sideways, directing her eyes outward, as if peering from behind a window.
She’d started in her bathroom, moved into the kitchen to get some food, and then hung out in her living room to eat and look at the world outside.
She headed back to the baby carriage, sorted her belongings into different areas, tidying up as one does before leaving the house. Then she turned her baby carriage toward the intersection and disappeared around the corner.
Hum, when I lived in RV’s and pulled into a parking lot I considered the space to my exit door mine.
It takes no small amount of empathy to see this.
Thank you.
I love the compassion and lyricism in your writing, Margo -- even when writing about a very harsh reality. I am sad about the baby carriage -- wondering if it ever held more than clothing, magazine pages and plastic objects.....