Homeless Makeover

Clara is not an ugly woman. With some makeup and nice clothes she could look really presentable. She is in her late thirties and still has perky breasts and a shapely bum. "I couldn't have kids," she told me one day. "That's why no man wants me." I stifled back a remark about how she lives her life is why a man wouldn't want her, but who am I to judge?

She had gathered herself today and was doing better. "You hungry?" I asked her, wanting to buy her a meal. She flashed a wad of what looked like five dollar bills as she grinned furiously. "Been panhandling over by restaurant row," she replied. I sat with Ferret as we talked about our postponed camping trip -- our homeless homecoming.

"You know what I hate?" Clara said interrupting Ferret and me. "I hate when you ask for a few bucks and they give you their to-go box from the restaurant."

Ferret laughed. I chuckled.

"Do I look that homeless?" Clara asked.

Ferret didn't say a word because he always looks homeless. It would be akin to the pot calling the kettle black. Ferret hasn't had a shower in weeks.

"The torn t-shirts don't help," I replied, trying to be nice. "And you could comb your hair. It would make you look less homeless."

Ferret and me watched as Clara disappeared into the dollar store to buy a brush and a new t-shirt.

"What do you take for your schiz?" Ferret asked while Clara was away.

"A Risperdal Consta shot in the ass."

"That's what she needs," Ferret said. "She needs a healthy shot of something in the ass to calm her down and bring her to her senses."

I chuckled once again at Ferret's blunt words. Clara came walking back out brushing her tangled hair. She had put her new t-shirt on in the bathroom of the dollar store

"How do I look?" she asked. "Better?"

"You look much better," I replied, kindly.

She grinned and put her brush in her backpack and then threw her old and torn t-shirt into the trash can next to us. I watched as she trudged across the parking lot headed back to all the restaurants in the shopping center a half a mile from here.

"She's going to work," Ferret said as he laughed.

"Yeap," I said musingly as I smoked my cigarillo. "She probably makes more money than I do writing. Women panhandlers have it easy."

Lunchtime called and I also wanted to get back home to check on Rosa. I told Ferret good day and rode my bike home after assuring him we were going to have our "homeless homecoming" another day.