How a quirky vagabond woman presented herself in my story by Jay Lang

 

Impulse 

By Jay Lang

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http://bookswelove.net/lang-jay/

 

I write frequently about homeless people and the dark corners where they frequent. I guess I do this because of how dismissed and judged this sector of our society is. In this chapter, a quirky vagabond woman presented herself to me as I wrote. I loved her energy and sense of self.   

Chapter One

 Weightless with fear, I step into the eerie silence of the dark alley. If it weren’t for the buzzing from the neon lights overhead, I would guess that I wasn’t really here. 

A few feet in front of me, there’s a dull flickering from behind a dumpster. My knees shake as I cautiously approach. Sticking out into the narrow pathway are two worn ankle boots. 

The nearer I draw, the more of the person I see. Dressed in layers of tattered clothing, an aged woman sits on a piece of wet cardboard with her back resting against the cracked stone wall. As I pass, she stares straight ahead. Her eyes are dark, lifeless and hollow—she’s no threat to me. 

A few feet down, a red door appears. Searching my mind for another alternative but knowing there isn’t one, I move closer to the door. Before grasping the black steel knob, I force air into my restricted lungs, my head reeling with the terror of what awaits me.

* * *

As soon as I pass the ferry turn-off, I pull onto the dark coastal road. On one side there’s a sheer rock face. On the other, a steep drop to the Pacific. The treacherous road is a witness to many summer fatalities where overzealous speed freaks race their overpriced hot rods, winning them a free ride in a meat wagon. The steady stream of tears and the hard rain on the windshield make it almost impossible to see the yellow line on the road ahead.

The above paragraph was an image I had of Horseshoe Bay, a beautiful cove just outside of Vancouver B.C.

Searching through my CD case, I look up just in time to crank the wheel and avoid the guard rail. The jerking of the car causes the case to slide off the seat and empty onto the floor. I look down at the mosaic of albums, scanning for something up-tempo and distracting. Reaching down, I snag a CD with the tips of my fingers. I’m disappointed when I read the words Air Supply’s Greatest Hits—too sappy, too forgiving. I toss the CD back onto the floor. Right now, I need music that mirrors my rage, something angry and defiant like Dream Theater or Metallica. 

Streams of tears sting as they roll down my cheeks. I wipe my face with my sleeve, leaving smears of makeup on the new sweater I bought special for tonight. What a waste of money. I never buy myself new clothes. Why would I? I live my life between working at the library, where my usual ensemble consists of earth tone separates and functional shoes, and then at home where I live in my Roots joggers and my mother’s old housecoat. But tonight...tonight I wanted to look classy and astute, like I really had my shit together. 

I envisioned strolling into the upscale venue at the posh Hotel Vancouver with his book, or should I say my book, under my arm. I wanted to walk up to him and watch the guilt rush over his face. Instead, I stood in a long line of book groupies and waited an unbearable hour and a half, forced to stare at walls lined with oversized posters of Joffrey holding his best seller novel, a big shit-eating grin on his face. It made me sick.