Night falls quickly this time of year. All around me the city comes to life, the sounds of the day fading away until they are exchanged by the pulse of the night life. I walk along the city streets, watching as the street lights turn on, one by one in preordained succession. The shop keepers throw suspicious glances at me as they quickly turn the open signs to closed and lock their doors.
“Go on, move along. Your kind isn’t welcome here.” the owner of an electronics stores snarls.
I can’t say that I blame them after catching glance of myself in one the windows. My clothes are worn and smell of the street. My once blond curls now hang heavy with dirt and oil, and my skin that was once rosy and flawless is now clogged and streaked with dirt. As I look more closely at the face peering back out at me I realize that it is my eyes that have changed the most. Just three-hundred sixty- five days ago my blue eyes shone with the light of youthful wonder and excitement. The eyes that now look back at me are hard and untrusting.
My name is Dawn Taylor and I am but one of hundreds that live on the streets. We are a society of the unwanted, a group of people so beneath everyday society that we are invisible. People look right through us and I am become accustomed to that. In fact, it is when someone looks me in the eye that I begin to wonder about their motives. I have learned that those are the people who usually want something from you, more than likely something you don’t want to give.
“Hey sweet thing,” a man calls from his car window as he slows down next to me. “You need a ride?”
I recognize him, the call him Jack on the street. He is handsome with his perfect facial features, blonde hair and bright blue eyes. His teeth are professionally white and his clothes as expensive as his car, but he can’t anything to disguise his evil nature. I’ve seen what happens to girls that get into his car, they come back broken and bloody.
“No thanks,” I call back, hopeful that the fear I am feeling is not evident.
His face flushes in anger at my refusal to go with him and I know I need to run as fast and as far from him as I can get. I run until I reach a group of people that I can get lost in. Even though I know its wrong I can’t help but hope that Jack has forgotten about me and moved onto another girl.
The night is fully animated now. I can feel the vibration of the music coming from the trendy night clubs I walk past. I once dreamed of going to places like that. I would have put on my best clothes and together with my multitude of friends danced and laughed the night away. Now the only primping I do is a quick check when I wake to make sure I still have my shoes.
I’ve been walking for hours now and my stomach growls; I can’t remember the last time I ate. A group of teenagers are in front of me. They turn to go into a 7-11. I walked as closely behind them as I can get without them noticing, hoping that the store clerk with assume that I am part of their group. The two middle aged women behind the counter stop talking and look upon all of us with suspicion.
“Watch them,” the oldest clerk says.
The younger clerk comes out from behind the counter and follows us. As they gather up their supplies of junk food, I too grab a package of chips, some Twinkies and a large bottle of soda. I continue to move with the group as they make their way to the counter to pay for their purchases and stand in the back.
Both clerks are back behind the counter ringing up the teens. While they are distracted I bolt out the front door. As I run through the night with my ill-gotten food I hear the door open.
“Hey stop!” I hear the clerk yell into the darkness. “I’m calling the cops.”
But it’s too late, the cops will never find me tonight and for now I have food.
I keep on walking through the city, afraid to stop too long in one place. I see the working kids on the street corners, hustling to make the twenty that will get them through one more night, either with food or a mood altering substance. In my other life I remember hearing the term “working girls” but now I know that it’s not just girls. On the street you discover quickly that whatever the fantasy or obsession it can be bought under cover of darkness. I barely notice the trading of sex for money on the street corners or the drug deals that take place in the back alleys anymore. When I first came to this existence I couldn’t believe the openness of these activities, but then when you are invisible to people they tend to forget that you can still see.
My wandering takes me into a neighborhood filled with apartments and town homes. It’s quiet here, only the occasionally car driving by or the distance sound of a dog’s bark in the air. Many of the windows glow from the light inside. I stop and peer up at the illuminated windows and remember.
I once lived in a house filled with warmth and light. I had my own bed and all the trappings associated with American teens. I thought I deserved not only what I had but everything I desired as well. Then one day the President of this country decided we needed to go to war and he sent my father away. My father never came back. My mother wasn’t a strong woman, she needed someone to take care of her and she didn’t really care who. Unfortunately for me, the who in this case didn’t want an instant family; I had to leave.
I stare up into the lit windows I wonder if my mother ever thinks about what has become of me. Does she worry? Does she remember? Does she care? But instead of answers I only hear the echo of days gone by.
In my mind it’s two years ago and I am watching from the living room window as two uniformed soldiers walk up to our front door. As I hold on my mother’s hand the tall solider says, “Mrs. Taylor, I’m sorry to have to inform you of the death of your husband.”
I can hear my mother’s screams still resonating in my mind; her wails of injustice as I hold her hand and wept silent tears.
My mind flashes forward six months to the day my mother came home and sat me down on the couch to tell me about her new love.
“I’m going to marry him Dawn,” she said.
“Congratulations Mom,” I told her not really meaning it.
She reached across the couch and took my hands. Looking into my eyes she said, “The thing is baby, he doesn’t want to be a stepfather. You’re going to need to find somewhere else to live.”
“But mom,” I cried out while my world crumpled and my heart broke even more, “Where will I go? What about school? College?”
“Ah Dawny, you’re a smart girl. You’ll get by just fine. You want your mommy to be happy don’t you?”
With a heavy heart I turn away from the homes that I like to imagine as happy. I continue to wander the streets, listening to the talk of the street people.
“Hey baby you wanna a date?” the young red head on the corner calls out to a passing car.
“Do you have any money you can spare?” a young boy asks a man leaving the adult book store.
“Man, I need a dime bag,” a well dressed teen tells the local drug dealer in the back of a dirty ally.
On the horizon I can see the sky beginning to change, the darkness is slowly lifting from the city. I look around and see the changes in traffic, the newspaper and delivery trucks already rolling along the city streets.
As the sky bursts into bright hues of pink, orange and blue I look up and see that I am standing in front of the Scared Heart Shelter. Since today is my nineteenth birthday I think I will allow myself to be talked too about God’s love in exchange for a hot meal, for I don’t know if I will see my twentieth year.
“Come my child,” the kindly looking priest says to me as he takes my arm to guide inside. “Let us nourish your body and soul.”
