It is hot, even at 8 p.m., even with the sun dipping, temperature still in the high 80s.
She is walking. She catches my eye.
I turn the car around, and in a moment am behind her.
She wants a ride home, perhaps more.
I tell her the ride would be fine, but nothing else.
I glance at her, around 20, fat rolls above her shorts, some insect bites, scabs from others on her thighs and arms. Just-out-of-high-school face, brown hair.
“A guy owes me a twenty. Maybe he has the money, maybe he’ll give me more. So drop me there. If he’s not there, then take me by my house.”
Two blocks and we’re there, a Quonset hut. A neighborhood repair shop.
She runs from the car past junked cars and trucks to the back of Quonset, and then comes back.
“He’s there, with the money, and with a chance for more. So thanks. Oh. I forgot my cigarettes,” and she reaches near the passenger seat and gets the pack. She misses a cigarette on the seat.
Before I drive off, I see go into the Quonset. The sun has dipped more; the sky is orange. The temperature has dropped a degree.
Cigarette anyone?
And in the Quonset, it must be broiling under the tin and aluminum roofing ….
Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, late June 2011
