V

The blue-haired Vendetta invited me to walk her across the street to the Safeway where no one feels safe. She is perfectly crude and I have to laugh (despite a professional facade) at the irony of choosing doughnuts while discussing the way she assaulted a policeman. V is the perfect contradiction; a self-acknowleded hypocritical Christian with an abhorrence for herself and an intolerance of judgement from the rest of us. Deftly, her tattooed hands, self-sliced arms search for comfort and fulfillment in a half priced sandwich and pepper jack cheese. This woman was once the model pimping prostitute who lost her waistline and self respect to baby fat and whole milk blended into years of undeserved beatings. She jokes with a raspy booming voice about how bad she wouldn't feel if she accidentally stole the doughnuts. Concluding that it would probably make her an "asshole", she sneers at the cashier and "pays" with EBT.

I am welcomed, initiated, granted special privilege to rest on the designated curb where guests shoot the breeze and talk shit about the volunteer staff. I feel honorably misplaced, but oblige the arms that could break me with a compliant seat to her left. She spills life like a carton of spoiled milk and spews pain as thick as doughnut custard. I watch in silent satisfaction as her black lips are wiped clean by ham and cheese. With the hint of a child's devious smile she allows me to fix the stray bobby pin that frames her glitter covered head. "No more alien communication I guess", she laughs as her antenna is tucked away safely.

V tells me the story of porn-prostituting-pimping-lesbianism in her characteristically cursing jargon and I listen; not to the gory details, but to the way her persian eyes brim tears when she talks about respect. When she talks about her son. When she talks about God. Who she could have been.

we sat on the curb and she cried.

And I've never been so grateful for a glazed doughnut.

(because everything else is too complicated)