Dull & Devastating Realty At The Bus Stop

   She kept telling me that her only shortcomings were the occasional overdoses and the lack of personal hygiene. Other than those two minor issues, she was a good person and easy to get along with.

   So she said.

   Without invitation she had sat down close to me on the metal bench in the bus shelter and proceeded to mumble quietly about people being mean-spirited and narrow-minded, never giving her a chance to freely express herself without criticism.

   I had to stand up and move a way from her within minutes of her claiming a seat, as the smell was overwhelming. A combination of dead fish, music-fest port-a-potty, and the sweat of a hundred convict laborers after a day walking a back highway picking up trash in the middle of July in South Carolina. 

   She looked up at me when I moved away with blank eyes that said nothing other than "eh," obviously accustomed to the reaction.

   I felt compelled to stand there and listen to her talk however. Her voice was clear and she was well-spoken, though the contents of her dialogue was a seriously disconcerted ramble.

   She spoke of being at school and never having any real friends (for about one full minute), then about a stranger who offered to buy her new clothes the next (with a clear indication that the stranger was offending her with the offer). She also repeatedly stated that the transit police constantly harassed her, even when she had a valid fare card.

    I just stood and listened. The tale-tell scabs and scars of at least ten years of meth addiction were present on the exposed skin of her malnourished, prisoner-of-war body. She sketched and scratched her right calf with her right hand as she rocked slowly on the metal bench. 

   As with all meth addicts, especially women, it was difficult to ascertain how old she was. She looked like a hard fifty but most likely was still in her twenties.

   Her less-than-coherent banter finally turned to the one topic that she had most likely wanted to open with. She asked if I could give her some money, at least a few dollars. She stated without embarrassment that she would take off her top if I would give her five dollars.

   All of which I'd heard before from other lost souls. I shook my head no and when she said "C'mon man, why not," I said as stoically as I could that I had no intention of playing a role in her slow suicide, which is my standard reply when approached by panhandling addicts.

   She simply retorted "f*ck you man," collected her things, stood up, and walked away. 

   It was another ten minutes before the bus arrived, during which I watched as she walked down the long concourse before she approached another commuter to attempt to get a few bucks. 

  The thoughts that filled my mind were the same thoughts I always had in those situations - that she was someone's daughter or sister or even possibly mother, and she lost all connection with her family and friends due to the power of her addiction.

   I felt the same twinges of guilt I always did for not being able or willing to provide any help, and the same there but for the grace of god go I sense of gratitude.

   Meth is the devil.