June 2010. Sometimes, I like to watch people. You can learn a lot about folks by the way that they move in the world, especially when they think no one’s looking. How they laugh, for instance. Some people throw their heads back, lips stretched wide-open toward the sky. Others, women mostly, smother their mouths with their hand. Why do they do that, d’ ya think? I’m a mouth-holder myself. It’s like we’re afraid to be seen being happy.

You know, I can tell you anything you wanna know about a person, once I’ve seen them push a broom. I’m serious, I can. Ol’ Mrs. Dyer who lives way down Frenchman, why she’s one of the most pissed off people I know. The way she stabs at her porch steps; rapid, sharp jabs at the concrete…she’s mighty angry about something. Then Leroy, the guy that sluices the sidewalks, he’s real gentle. He holds that hose like a caress. Watchin’ him is relaxing; the way he sways slowly, side to side. Like the pavement’s precious.

I wonder about what he finds. Leroy. What sort of treasures folks lose when they’re pie-eyed. You’d find it surprising because we’re always on the lookout, but nobody ever picks up much of anything at all. The gutters fill with cups and butts and crumbled paper napkins but we don’t see much cash lying on these streets. With all the intoxication an’ all, you’d think we’d be set. But something happened today. This girl was walking past me with her friends. She saw me, I know she did, but she didn’t step out. I had to draw in my feet real quick. She was money, you know what I mean. Her and her friends, all gussied up like Paris what’s her name, sailing down the street like they got some sort of claim to the City. Well, Paris’s cell phone goes off and she’s trying to pull it out of this tiny, yellow purse and her credit card lands smack at my feet. It’s not pretty but it’s true; I slid my foot out slow over it and it was so tempting, just for a second, to keep it, but I can’t. So I chase after her and I’m calling and she ignores me and keeps walking. One of her friends turns, sees what I’m holding out, and she nudges Paris and they stop. I tell her, You just dropped this, and all she says is Oh. Just Oh. You know, that skank took her card from me with her fancy painted fingers, and walked away without giving me a second glance. Like I was nothin’. I had to fight down this urge to chase after her an’ slap her, to get in her face and tell her real slow, Let me tell you, Honey.  I got people. I might not flounce around town with a box glued to my ear, but Missie, I got friends of my own.

Like Mott. We call him Mott ‘cause he likes to wear holey old Mott the Hoople t-shirts all the time--well Mott, he’s the king around here. He don’t tell nobody nothin’. First time I met Mott he started firing questions like bullets and I told him, Hey, why you think I’m here? My business is none of your beeswax. He soon put me straight. Mott makes me talk like a lady. Sometimes in my head I sound real nice and I think Girl, you could be anyone, but what comes out hardly ever sounds the same. Mott, he gave me a dictionary he pulled from a box outside Becks an’ I turned it down at first--just something else to weigh me down--but now I learn a new word every day. I worked out a system so it’s random. I drop the book, careful-like, and I close my eyes before I pick it up, flip it over and rest the tip of my nail on the page. Whatever word my finger lands on, that’s it—somehow I got to use that word. Course it’s not a perfect system, and sometimes I cheat—like if I don’t care to use a particular word. You know--if something sounds spiteful, or it’s real dirty.

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