photo courtesy of dancing vagabond
Several glasses of wine mixed with awkward small talk after an eleven hour shift on four hours of sleep finds me traversing the labyrinthine side streets of the original skid row. See, this friend of a friend was doing a fundraiser and I guess someone fell through last minute and they needed a professional on the fly. Ring-a-ding-ding night before the big to-do add one part sleep deprivation, one part malnourishment, two part exhaustion, four to six glasses of wine…yada yada yada…we’re back at the beginning of our story.
Getting in and out of Pioneer Square on Metro used to be as easy as one, two, pick-up-my-shoe even for nocturnal passengers like myself. Of course that was before they took all the buses off first ave and put the only northbound bus stop on the border of the I.D. For those of you not familiar with the topography of the Emerald City let me just say this new setup put about eight blocks between me and my green and yellow chariot. Eight blocks of addicts, derelicts, society’s untouchables, and me on a petit odyssey in less than sensible shoes. It’s not Murder City’s ninth ward (I rocked that in a short skirt and stilettos with only minimum scaring) but I’d wager after a certain hour there’s a one and four chance of a knife in the belly.
I’m not thinking about any of this as I navigate the uneven terrain. I’ve had just enough of the grape to trust my feet to take me where I need to go but not so much I’ve become oblivious to my mortality. That perfectly reckless combination of wine and guts. I’m in that focused head space ruled by instinct when I find myself at a fork in the road. A horde of hopped up Harborview hobos under neon on one side of the street and a crew of desperate displaced derelicts in street couture passing the paper bag on the other. Nothing but the sounds of the city and the tapping of my heels on the cobblestone as I make my debut. I’ve got to make a choice. I’ve got to pick a side of the street or turn back and take a six block detour through an equally dangerous neighborhood. Without pausing my stride, I make my choice, and play out ridiculous Jackie Chan type scenarios through the ol’ brain box as each step brings me closer to the drenched in eau de public toilette derelicts of Washington square. I tighten my ocular muscles, square my shoulders, and slip my keys between my fingers.
When I’m still a little more than arms length away the Lord Bulldog steps forward, “We cut pretty girls like you,” he tells me waving his switchblade.
“Thanks for noticing I’m pretty,” I replied playfully flipping my hair. I shouldn’t have said that. Apparently I put in enough time in the temple of of Dionysus to think it’s a good idea to be sassy with a drunk knife wielding hobo. So I’ve got that going for me.
He fixed me with his bulldog stare and with obvious annoyance and confusion he flexed his blade and spoke in simpler terms, “Seriously, I’m gonna cut you. Do you see I’ve got a knife here?”
photo courtesy of dancing vagabond
Judging from his tone I guessed his question was rhetorical even with the rise in inflection at the end. I reckoned the best thing to do was trust my golden tongue would charm me out of another hostile situation or if my slick word stitching failed me, go out fighting and cursing. I looked him up and down with an arched eyebrow and a junior high smirk, “What with that cute little thing? Your blade’s about as long as the file on my nail clippers. You gonna give me a manicure with that thing? Frankly, I’m embarrassed for you right now.” I definitely should not have said that.
Without hesitation he blurted, “Don’t you know who I am?” twisting his blotchy drunken face as his posse leaned in. I wasn’t sure if he was angry, bemused, or lactose intolerant.
I swilled enough vini-punch to really get into my character and deliver this Golden Globe nominated line, “Yeah, I know who you are, you’re the comedian with the itsy-bitsy-little-bitty slice and dicer. The question you should be asking though is, ‘Who the !@?# am I?’” This might actually top my list of things not to say to a psychiatric reject weapon wielding social hazard.
He looked confused and I tried to come up with an escape plan if everything went purple. After what seemed like an eternity of silence with the whole city on pause as the street roaches waited to see how their knife wielding leader would respond. Then laughter. Gut clenching shoulder shaking teary eyed laughter in stereo.
Once we got over the shock of his response everyone started laughing. They slapped each other on the back and stomped their feet spilling their wine. After regaining some of his composure his body language changed, “You’re a regular Bob Hope. It’s good to laugh. You’re alright.” He closed his knife and leaned forward with a paternal look, “But seriously, it is not safe for you to be out here by yourself this time of night. Where are you going?”
“Northbound bus stop just up the street,” I replied with a smile and a casual shrug of my shoulders.
“We’ll walk you.”
“Thanks, but I’m a big girl.”
“I don’t doubt you can hold your own in a fight, but I wasn’t asking,” he retorted with a chortle.
Long story short the big king hobo and his crew walked me to the bus stop and waited with me about 20 minutes till the bus came. They even offered me some wine.
I don’t know what I expected from the original skid row. It’s not like I’d had so much wine I thought the hobos would burst into a Little Shop of Horrors melody, but befriending a derelict gang never would have made my list.
I’ve got an uncanny ability to survive whatever life throws my way. I’m a girl who can roll with the punches. I’m not entirely sure how my life has became a National Lampoon’s Apocalypse Now parody, but here I am laughing off another near death experience with my would be executioners and in the words of Ol’ Frankie Blue Eyes, “That’s Life.”
