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Still in the Streets

Shannon Barber

    When I walk down the street at night I feel safe. I am protected by the orange tint of the streetlights; unlike the sun they make my face unclear. Maybe I even look pretty. My friends are always telling me to be careful, to stay in at night, but I never do. I’ve tried to explain to them that the workaday girl they see all the time is not the one I’ve always been. Nor is it the one I am now.
    I try to explain that I am at home that the people they are afraid of are my people. They are the people who when I stop at the mouth of the alley trying not to breathe in piss stained air, patting my pockets for my lighter, those are the people who will give me a light. Or hand me a book of matches.
    All of these nice people I know now make me tired. I’m lonely when I’m talking to them over coffee. They talk about buying houses and having babies, they talk about going to wineries and eating foods that cost more than I used to spend on food in a week. I hate to admit it, but I really don’t like them.
    I know that because I came from the streets and from among the night people that I am supposed to be happy. I am supposed to be an inspiring story of reclamation; I am supposed to be their shining light at the end of the sob story tunnel. I am supposed to be their movie of the week, or maybe supposed to get a make over to complete my transformation into an acceptable middle class girl.
    I wish I could say that I am sorry about that. Wouldn’t it be nice if I could look myself in the eye and realize the error of my ways and then curtsy to the I told you so’s playing in my head and stop with all this treacherous duality?
    At work I am the shy girl, the one who dresses matronly and too old. Officially my title is Document specialist- Tier Four, which is a fancy way of saying that I can reformat, correctly format or fix any document type and I type much faster than most everyone else.
    Some days I am asked to be their one and only copy writer. Once upon a time like a fool I volunteered to take over the duties of writing the company newsletter. After a few issues some boss somewhere higher up decided I could be their copywriter. I write things on the website, I take care of their social networking. I do those things that most of them don’t know how to do when I’m not doing my main job.
    Unfortunately this has led to interaction. It used to be that I was the shy and somewhat well dressed girl in the corner cubicle on the fourth floor. The young lady in slacks, twin sets and sensible shoes, when I first started working here I had no idea what to wear and I made up this stupid uniform. They never know that my twin sets are bought at the uptown thrift store and that I wear pants not because I want to be taken seriously as a professional but because I have huge tattoos on my calves that I hate explaining to horrified nice people.
    I make enough money to live in a nice apartment, I have things, I eat every day. I am never worried about the things I used to worry about. Now I worry about what could happen if any of the people I work with figure out that I’m pretending. I’m a big fake. I don’t belong in their world and the clothes they all compliment are all pieces of a costume.
    Everyday I battle my instincts, I smile, I try not to look like a freak. I try to at least seem like one of them, like the girl they think they hired. It’s hard and I’m always scared the mask will slip.
    I was at work the other day, and I looked up when I saw people approaching. I don’t know what they wanted, but the terror that welled in me was possibly the worst thing I have ever felt. Every atavistic human fear bubbled in my guts, my asshole clenched shut so I would not soil myself in case I had to flee. I looked at their bright All-American faces and almost pissed myself like a rabbit gone tharn.
    I did not run nor did I piss or shit myself, all three miracles. Instead. I put on my nice smile, the slightly shy “oh shit” smile they are used to. They spoke; I responded I did whatever it was that they asked. The mask stayed up, but barely.
    The terror lingers. It lingers and drives me from my decent apartment onto the streets. I walk for blocks and blocks; I know my route by how the pavement looks. I know I’m home when I see the older prostitute with the bad shoes and fabulous wigs holding down her corner.
    Tonight when I get off of work I will say goodbye, I will listen to my coworkers extorting me to be safe and then I will walk. Walk until the terror abates and I feel human again. I will stop and talk to the hookers, addicts and other night people and I will be safe.
    I will be human again and I will be safe.

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