It’s 3:30 in the morning. It’s rare that I can’t sleep. Sleep is my respite, my peace, my solace. Even with the dreams that never let me rest, sleep is my rest. It’s rare that I can’t sleep. Tonight is a rare night.

I turn off the alarm and walk outside. It’s a beautiful morning. The street by my house is quiet, but one person another person another person walks through the crosswalk at the corner. That’s where the action is, so I turn to my left and walk.

A woman paces on the other side of the street. She stands and stares at the sidewalk, then turns and gazes through the windows of a parked car, then turns again and lowers her eyes to the concrete walkway. Back and forth, back and forth. She never stops moving. Her legs are thin in her skintight jeans.

I reach the corner, and I stop to watch her. Back and forth. Back and forth. She doesn’t notice that I’m there. She doesn’t notice that I’m watching her. Back and forth. Back and forth.

A big man with a big bottle walks down the street toward me. The bottle reminds me of the heavy gin bottles that lined our kitchen when I was a child. Gordon’s Gin. My father would give me the olives from his martinis, or the limes from his gin and tonics. The olives never stuck with me, but the limes… there were days in my adult life when I would’ve walked the face of the earth for a gin-soaked lime. Gin and tonics, heavy on the lime and light on the tonic. I drank them by the pint, provided I had a lime. No lime, no deal.

The big man reaches me. The bottle in his hand is a plastic soda bottle. He asks how I’m doing. I tell him I can’t sleep. I ask how he’s doing. He says he’s just looking for a place to rest his head. I offer him nothing in return, and he keeps walking.

The woman heard our conversation, and she walks across the street.

“‘Scuse me, hon. D’ya got a light?”

“No.”

“Oh. How about the time? Ya got the time?”

“No. I’ve got nothing.

She laughs. “How about… Do you have…” She falls silent for 10 seconds, 15 seconds. She stares at me. Then she laughs again. “You got nothing. I was gonna ask if you had something, but I can’t think of anything to ask for.”

I smile at her. Her hair is frizzy and pulled back from her face. Her forehead is huge, as if she’s been pulling her hair back for years. In an alternate world, she’s probably pretty. Not in this one, though. “Nope. I got nothing. Sorry.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you do drugs? I mean smoke. Like weed. I’ve got paper, but I don’t know how to roll. Oh, but you don’t smoke, so you wouldn’t know…” Her voice fades into an embarassed emptiness.

This wasn’t the personal question I was expecting. It’s not the personal question that most women on street corners in my neighborhood ask at 3:30 in the morning. “Nah, I never learned how to roll joints. Sorry. Anyway, I gave all that up a long time ago.”

“Yeah? Like how long ago? When’s the last time you smoked a cigarette?”

“It’s been like 10 years. Actually, I’ve been totally clean for about 10 years.”

We start talking about drugs. She asks me what my drug of choice was, and I tell her. She nods. I ask her what she likes. She says she’s been off of heroin for three months, but she just went back on pills. She tells me the names of the pills she takes, but I can’t understand what she says.

“I’m really hyper, you know? But they calm me down. I like being calm. But I’ve got an appointment a week… a week from Wednesday.”

We talk about how she’s been off of heroin, how hard it is to get clean. I tell her that the first three months are the hardest, and I offer her my hand in congratulations. She seems surprised, but then she shakes my hand. Her handshake is firm and masculine. Her hand is cold. It is the first time I have ever touched a whore. It is the first time a whore has ever touched me.

I start walking toward my house, and she senses the moment slipping away. She asks if she can have a glass of water, and I tell her no. The dogs are asleep, and I won’t be able to get in and out without them barking. It’s a lame excuse, and she knows it. I turn to walk away.

“Can I ask you one more personal question?”

I smile, and tell her she can ask only one more.

“Do you date? I got a van around the corner, a minivan. I don’t know if you’ve seen it. The window’s broken. It doesn’t have any gas. If you wanna date…” Once again, her voice trails off. Her curly hair tickles her cheek as the spring breeze blows through it.

“No thanks. I don’t date, but thanks for the offer.”

“Well, could I have six dollars for gas?” I tell her I have none. “Three dollars?”

I laugh, and reach into my pocket to pull out a single quarter. “I told you, I’ve got nothing. A quarter. That’s all I’ve got. It’s jack, but you can have it.” I drop it into her palm, and it disappears.

We say goodnight, and I walk away. I should’ve asked her name. I wonder how many people use her name. I walk into the house and walk to the fridge, where I pull out a bottle of Gatorade. I pick up my wallet off of the kitchen table and open it; there’s only a $10 bill, so I close the wallet again. I walk back outside, hoping that Gatorade will do instead of water.

A neighbor is out with his dog. The girl with the frizzy hair is nowhere to be seen. I talk to the man and pet his dog. The dog is old and feeble, but he’s fat and happy. He’s had a good life, and seems as if he plans on having a bit more good life. The three of us walk up the street together, then they turn toward their home. I walk farther down the block, but I can’t find the girl.

I walk back home. I wonder how high she was. I wonder how much of our conversation she’ll remember. I wonder how many tiny opportunities I’ve missed. Tiny opportunities to do something nice for someone else. I put the Gatorade back in the refrigerator, turn on the alarm, and walk upstairs to the place where I rest my head.

Credit: Chuck @ The Way of Chuck

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