❝Some nights I wish that
my lips could build a castle.
Some nights I wish they'd
just fall off.❞
- Some Nights, Fun
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SHE, THE STORYTELLER
___
"In the coldest of nights, you can feel your own breath as you exhale. She counted each one, reminding herself that each breath she took closer to those huge oak doors is a breath less with her little bundle of happiness. If she could only keep her, she would. She really would, but fate won't allow some desperate character to change its bestseller, so she had to do what she could to keep her fed, sheltered and clothed.
She gave her a chance.
She gave her away."
The small crowd of people gathered around the bar stared at our young storyteller with a mixture of emotions you often see in a funeral- awe because of the great story, anger that it ended too soon, happy that they at least knew about it, all wrapped in an air of fleeting melancholy.
"Did she see her baby again?"
Nothing.
"She must've right?"
Silence.
Ah, the innocence of a 4 year old, untarnished by life's epic bullshit. I must thank him for breaking the immensely awkward silence in the room.
"Right?"
Still none.
Not one of the adults in the room seemed to know how to tell him; no one wanted to break the heart of a wide-eyed toddler who probably still drank milk before bed. It's like telling him Santa didn't really live in the North Pole. Right, dad? He shifted his stare from his mom nibbling on what's left of her pecan pie to a bulky trucker seated on a booth behind them.
"She will, someday," our storyteller whispered to him, winked then walked away.
That was enough to satisfy the inquisitive young boy, so he went back to eating his cheesecake, slobbering it all over his chest like most kids do. The once silent crowd was now dispersed, going about each ones business as if nothing happened. A few stole glances towards the door to the backroom where the girl often disappeared to.
They all knew her but knew nothing about her.
Most evenings she came over to Izzy's, told a story or two, handed out a few meals then disappeared into the backroom where everyone assumed she did the dishes. They weren't too far off. She also got paid with a warm meal and a heated room to sleep in for a few hours until most customers are out and clean-up is done. The rest of the night she wandered the streets of New York, watching her breathing just like the miserable mother from her story.
She wasn't always homeless, although she's always felt that way. I guess home was a subjective concept. These streets are her hallways, bedroom, living room, dining room and occasionally, restroom. Oh, don't make that face! You'll go anywhere if you really had to. Trust me, your pee won't know the difference.
Living in the streets was like living in a frat house. There's lots of people—mostly drunk. It reeked of sex and horny men; there's trash and left over take-outs everywhere, and you had an endless array of roommates who slept through all the discussions and reminders of respecting others privacy. See? It's the college experience minus the dread of student loans.
It's not so bad being homeless when you never knew 'home'.
YOU ARE READING
In Her Words
General Fiction"When he first heard her, he knew. She was his bestseller." Before there were great stories, there were only words. Luke's were smart and eloquent but hollow. It was nothing like Emma's story, bleak and awkward, but honest to a fault. This is a comi...
