Road to Damascus

I wrote this for a contest a while back.

I’m a good person. I really am.

Like, I mean, most people don’t give money to charities, right? I do. I give it to those people on the street corners with the bells around the holidays whenever I have spare change. And I’m not one of those mass produced organized religion zombies who doesn’t give a s**t. That’s what makes up most of this country. Oh, and I’m a vegetarian.

Did you hear that? A vegetarian. Thanks to a friend of mine who’s pretty awesome and got me into it a month ago. Who could be more caring than a vegetarian?

I’m probably also more intelligent, more cultured, and wiser than the general adult population. Like, today, I was watching the news and I totally knew what was going on in third world countries better than my dad did. I guess it was my fault I didn’t hear which country it was. But I was kind of busy- straightening my hair.

“-Are only getting worse as the war progresses. Refugees are cut off from gas to heat water and have barely any opportunities to find employment. Actual housing is no longer an option for the IDPs. Their food shortage is running to extreme lows and now depends primarily on humanitarian aid. Bombs and bullets fly constantly over the camps and civilian deaths are ranking up to all time highs.”

Images of your generic war ridden country flashed across the screen. You know, children with huge, needy eyes covered in dirt and barren landscapes that look like a giant is uprooting everything he can touch. The screen switched back to the anchors.

“Isn’t that sad, Mark?” An unemotional, unnatural blonde asked in an I’m-ashamed-of-my-kid kind of voice.

“Yes, Sharon, it is,” Mark answered apathetically, ready to knock down the next set of statistics. That’s it. Statistics. That’s why my stomach was feeling uneasy. These statistics were high and the higher the statistics, the sadder the situation. I guess I just needed something to boost my spirits. I hopped into my warm shower, craving the soothing heat in the cold dead of winter.

I sighed in contentment as the heat splattered across my skin, scattering into clear liquid glass as it bounced down to the composite floor. Of course, it only hit below my shoulders. I had to keep everything shoulders and up dry for fear of getting moisture in my just-straightened hair. That, and I dyed it yesterday. I chose turquoise and blue on top of my short platinum. I thought it looked really cool. But, my hair dye meant no water until I could buy new color proof shampoo.

My thoughts started to drift to the magical world of color proof shampoo when a nasty reality check brought my nerves to attention. Out of nowhere, rivulets of icy, sharp water shot from the nozzle onto my poor, unsuspecting skin. I swear, it took me less than a second to jump out.

“S**t!” I cried. I mean, seriously? It’s already freezing outside and my shower is spouting icicles at me. Something must have been wrong with the water pressure or whatever the hell makes it hot.

At least my hair was okay. I pulled my skinny jeans and “Darfur” tee on as fast as my frozen muscles would allow. After that, I zipped myself up in a faux fur-lined plaid jacket I found at a thrift shop. Yeah, at least my hair was okay.

I would still have a pretty great day, despite my shower fiasco. I mean, today was a Saturday. That meant work a few hours, play a few hours. I got ready, added the last few touches to my electro-clash cat’s eye makeup, and raced down the stairs to grab the keys.

“A little late, Tammy, aren’t we?” My dad said, a grin in his voice, holding the keys over his shoulder while simultaneously reading the paper. I groaned, snapped the keys out of his hand, and stomped toward the door.

“Hey, Tammy!” He yelled, spinning around on the swivel counter chair.

“Yeah, what?” I yelled back on the verge of a screech.

“I don’t like the tone… don’t you think that’s a bit too much eye makeup?” he said slowly, a smile like a lever pushing at his laugh lines. Usually he was a pretty cool dad, but sometimes he just got on my nerves.

“Dad, back off! Seriously! You have no idea what hell I went through this morning!” I shouted. I stormed out too fast to see what effect my explosion had on him.

Chapter 2: Barely Any Opportunities to Find Employment

My keys were in the ignition and my engine was humming. The drive to work was all I needed to stabilize my chi. At least I think that’s what it was doing. One of my friends is all into Eastern philosophy and kind of got me into it. I haven’t really read any texts on chakras or meditation or anything, but I think I get the basics. At least I wasn’t some god-fearing-let-me-shove-my-Bible-down-your-throat zealot like the rest of America.

Speaking of zealots, there was the Jesus queen herself. Mrs. O’Collins, b***h manager of O’Freezy’s icecream parlor. I damned every second I worked there, but at least the wages were good. Once your wrist stopped hurting from the scoop, it was an easy job. I had been working there about three months now. It’s not like anyone walked into the place after October, so I didn’t have much of a “job” to do anyways. It was just weird that she was standing outside. She usually waited for me inside the parlor.

“You’re late again,” she murmured, motioning me into the store. I put on my uniform a.k.a. O’Freezy’s hat and followed in after her.

She said nothing. I said nothing. This is how it usually went. She counted the money, I clocked in, and off she went to the back room to grab her purse and keys. Mechanically, I glanced over the parlor, checking for sweet, sugary scum stuck to table surfaces. None. I estimated about two total customers for her morning shift.

“Tammy, c’mere a minute,” O’Collins called from the back room. Casually, I strode through the door, entering only to see a less than pleased manager.

“Tammy,” she started. She couldn’t start a sentence without naming the person she was addressing. “Tammy, this is the third consecutive shift you’ve been late.”

What was I supposed to say? I had my priorities. I murmured a faint “Yeah…” in response.

“Tammy,” she placed her hand on my shoulder. Was that supposed to be tender or something? I was getting scared. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your performance…”

I began to assume the worst. No… I mean, I’d only been working here for three months…

“God bless you, but… okay. I’m just going to be honest with you. Tammy, you just don’t reflect the image of the store that I try so hard to uphold.”

What was she talking about? Not upholding an image? Bigot.

“Tammy, you just don’t seem to care about this store’s reputation.”

Reputation? It’s a goddamned icecream parlor. What reputation?

“You’re appearance completely contrasts the values I’m trying to enforce in my establishment…”

Closed-minded b***h.

“So… Tammy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.”

I stood dumbly for a few seconds. She stuck on a pseudo-sympathetic smile and gently lifted her hand off of my shoulder. I’m sure I saw her lips move and I’m sure that she was talking to me, but it was all just noise, all incomprehensible noise. I guess this was basically the worst day of my life.

“Yeah. Okay.” I said, throwing back a pseudo-smile in return. I fingered the keys in my pocket and retraced my steps out of O’Freezy’s and back into the driver’s seat. I couldn’t even feel what had just happened.

So what? So what if I’d been late a few goddamned times? P-R-I-O-R-I-T-I-E-S. I had school, I had a social life, I had so many other things to care about that work couldn’t possibly be the first on my list. Yeah, so the last few times, I’d been hanging out with some friends, and I guess I lost track of time, but I barely get to see them in school! I try, I seriously do. Isn’t my job supposed to suit my needs? Equal opportunities for everyone, right? Can’t they accommodate to the social life of an American teenager? Can’t be that hard.

It didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t let it. That b***h couldn’t stop preaching to me, anyways. Each time I had a shift with her, she’d spout out all of this love-thy-neighbor-do-God’s-will crap. Perfect Catholic zombie. I was glad I wouldn’t have to see her again. I hope her God smites her.

Chapter 3: Housing is No Longer an Option

My reflection stared back at me through the rearview mirror. I was examining myself, searching for any defects. There were none that I could see, but then again, I wasn’t looking too hard. I never did; I didn’t like to see myself. However, I had to do a once-over right then. Stress causes frustration and frustration causes me to sweat. My hair could be ruined. It was fine, though. Everything was good. My hair was okay.

Once I was inside my house, I immediately rushed up to my room. I needed them, my cigarettes. I only had three left in that pack. I had only started smoking, like, really smoking, about a month ago. Before that, I maybe smoked once or twice a week with my friends because they were doing it. I couldn’t help it. I’m a victim of peer pressure. You think that’s my fault? But lately, I can’t help craving the nicotine when I feel upset. I guess I’m also a victim of addiction. And that couldn’t be anyone’s fault.

I shoved the pack in my jacket pocket and tried to stride as inconspicuously as possible past my dad. He was glued to some kind of foreign affairs debate, anyways. When he was interested in something, he couldn’t see me. Maybe it was neglect. I think there are some laws against that. Right then, I was happy for his neglect, because I seriously needed to relieve some stress.

Frustration seethed and flipped over, tumbling and distorting itself like a pile of clothes in a dryer. However, it was warming me, and when my frustration was done drying, it would sit still and calm in my stomach. That’s what the cigarettes were for, to dry out my frustration.

Smoke seeped elegantly out of my mouth trying to invade the air’s slice of matter. I was starting to feel better. I mean, I was starting to until I heard the creak of the screen door swinging off its hinges.

“Tammy, I heated a frozen pizza for you… and I…” My dad’s voice trailed off and his mouth settled in a tiny “o.”

The worst part was that he wasn’t saying anything. It was just the opposite of O’Collins and twice as bad. No noise, but I could hear a thousand words fiercely beating my eardrums. Disappointment crawled out of his eyes to his cheeks, from his cheeks to his nose, from his nose to his mouth to every other crevice it could nestle in and then, it shouted at my frail, cowering body. I could read this all off of his face. I was a pretty good judge of emotion. Right then, I wished I wasn’t.

I didn’t know he’d be so goddamned mad about all of it. Seriously, him just standing there, watching, making me feel like s**t. Couldn’t he tell I was having a f*****g awful day? Couldn’t he tell the world was crashing down on me? I was no Atlas. I couldn’t hold it. I was a victim of uncontrollable circumstances. I was a teenager and I was only smoking a few cigarettes.

His mouth closed and his eyes examined me as if he didn’t know me. Dad, you do know me. I’m your daughter. I couldn’t stand this face. But I’m a good judge of emotion, and I knew what this meant.

I shoved past him, flung the creaking screen door aside, and ran upstairs. I had to pack a few necessities- money, clothes, cell phone, make-up, straightener- and then I would be set. My mind was already made up. I wouldn’t stay with a friend. I would sleep on the streets. Now, that’ll really teach him. He’ll feel sorry he got on my a*s like that. The beginning of tears cut tiny, watery slices above my lower eyelid. No, I couldn’t cry. Besides, some of my friends had been homeless for a few days and it just gave them a bad-a*s reputation. I’d look cool, too.

The books that had previously been in my messenger bag now lay scattered across my floor. It was surreal. I lifted the strap above my shoulder and started my way to the car.

“Tammy, wait, no-“

That’s all I heard. Didn’t matter. My dad was an a*****e. I could not believe he was kicking me out. The realization of how selfish and inconsiderate and neglectful he was really only hit me after I was flying down the highway. I allowed myself to cry, understanding how much of a victim I truly was. No question about it now: Worst. Day. Ever.

As I drove, I noticed how dry the countryside was. The parched Texas ground and the grey, thirsting remains of the cotton fields melted together to create an agonizingly depressing scene. It made my stomach churn. Wouldn’t rain be nice? Then again, if it rained, I would get my hair wet. Wasn’t my hair all I had left? At least it was okay right now. Besides, they had been talking about this drought for weeks now. I’m sure it would die out soon on its own.

I knew the perfect place to stay, those nice little park benches downtown near the waterfront. However open they may be, they felt safe. They felt warm and sheltering. The homeless people that slept there almost made me jealous when I’d pass them. They looked content, at peace. No worries, no responsibilities, no social life- just sleeping on the quaint little park bench alongside the pretty rolling seas. I wanted to gather their lives, place them on a silver platter, and carelessly pick one up between my thumb and index finger and live it for a day. I thought of my situation optimistically. I had gotten my wish.

Chapter 4: Food Shortage is Running to Extreme Lows

For the next few hours, it would still be daylight. I had more than enough time to wander the downtown aimlessly, maybe get a bite to eat. Actually, that was exactly what I would do. I mean, I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day. I had kind of depended on sneaking free cups of icecream at O’Freezy’s, but, obviously, that hadn’t played out.

I walked around to the nearest restaurants. What was I in the mood for? Subway, Burger King, Fridays… Oh, and a small, local coffee shop. Naturally, I had to go there. Those local places are where my crowd hangs out. They are unquestionably cool scenes.

The aroma of fresh ground beans poured in through my nostrils, endlessly permeating my brain and shoving out the negative contents so the fragrance could have enough room. I welcomed the coffee shop atmosphere. It was dulling. It was a world where sensation reigned superior over petty human complications. Soon, I would have a warm mocha latte in my hand and that was all that mattered.

“What would you like?” the cashier asked. She was one of the people I would probably hang out with: purple and red beanie, dreads, tight blue jacket that probably had a band name scrawled across the back.

“Um… a small mocha latte,” I answered. Transaction almost complete. Transaction almost complete. The quality of my day depended on this one beverage.

I gaped eagerly as would-be-my-friend girl mixed the ingredients and topped the drink off with a hasty swirl of whipped cream.

“$3.26,” she said indifferently.

Finally. It was mine. I fished around in my messenger bag, pulled out my wallet, and triumphantly reached for a $5. Wait, no, that wasn’t a five. Actually, that was a receipt. Actually, I didn’t have any cash in my wallet.

“Oh… I’m sorry…” I stuttered, embarrassed as the cashier watched, an eyebrow slowly climbing her forehead. “I…”

S**t. That’s right. I used all of my cash on my hair dye. Use my debit card? That’s funny. I left it at home, thinking I would have enough cash for a day or two.

“I guess I just don’t have…”

“Oh,” she said. My heart dropped as the drink was placed out of reach, off in an uninviting corner of the counter waiting for after work consumption. Probably by her. That’s what I did at O’Freezy’s.

Nevermind, I decided. I would never hang out with her.

Chapter 5: Humanitarian Aid

I sluggishly made my way out of the shop and onto a street curb, dazed, resting my heavy head on my chin. This was the worst day ever. My life sucked. Mindlessly, I lifted my free hand to my scalp and stroked down. Yeah, at least my hair was okay.

An eruption of growls emitted from my stomach. Why was I so hungry? Why did I feel faint? Tiny black holes drilled into my path of vision. Noise became a murmur. I think I was starving. I’m not kidding, I literally think I was starving. I had never been so hungry before, and all over an unaffordable latte. My mouth went dry as all of the liquids in my body poured into my stomach, corroding its contents, both wasteful and vital, like a cruel acidic rain. Yeah, I seriously think I was starving.

I had a genius epiphany. I dug around my messenger bag, searching for something I hoped I had forgotten to take out. Yes- it was there, my green beret I found in a thrift store weeks ago. I had worn it a few days back. Setting it beside me on a semi-clean patch of grass, I used the last of my spare change (a total of 17 cents) and threw it in my hat. Genius.

Okay, I know it wasn’t genius, but I never thought I would have to be in that situation. I considered myself resourceful.

Too bad no one else did. I tried to look as pitiful and heartbreaking as possible. I tried to look like the big eyed needy kids on TV. I tried to whimper softly to myself, giving the impression that I was embarrassed with my emotions but couldn’t restrain them. Mad acting skills. And yet, everyone walked past. Not a dollar, not a penny, nothing. I was invisible. I was a section of the curb, an unremarkable slab of cement. No one acknowledged my existence.

Those b*****s. Those f*****g selfish a******s, only caring about pleasing themselves. Were they not human? I was suffering. Isn’t that what humans are supposed to do- help each other out? Couldn’t they see me? Couldn’t they see the hunger pains etched into my face? How could they not care?

There was a devil on my shoulder whispering all the evils of the world into my willing ear. He whispered rage into my heart and soon it had consumed me. I guess the hunger was just messing with my head. Everything was black and white, or, should I say, dark and light. I was light, the good, the struggling victim innocently asking for the help of my fellow humans. They were all dark. They were corrupted, soulless monsters who couldn’t even stop and give a homeless girl a quarter. I was mad- an understatement.

One of the dark people imagined he had a heart. I could tell how proud he must have felt by the shine in his eyes when he walked out of Subway. He was maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, pink skinned, wearing a generic flannel guy shirt. He was lonely, I could tell, and probably didn’t get around to helping people often. He probably felt like a good Samaritan. Self satisfaction fueled his actions. I could see it in his fingers when he held out the sandwich to me.

I eyed it carefully, watching like a cautious but ravenous dog. It looked good. It looked delicious, actually. But was that turkey I saw outlining the bread?

“Yeah,” he answered breathlessly.

That ignorant a*****e. I was a vegetarian! Was that some kind of a joke? An insult? Did he think I was stupid? Couldn’t he tell I actually cared? He got what he deserved!

“A*****e!” I screamed. The sandwich flew out of my hand, lingered for a moment in the distance between us, and then smeared across his face. Sandwich guy blinked a few times as if trying to squish the experience between his eyelids. Then, he pulled himself together, turned, and walked off as if I had never existed. I couldn’t help but laugh and laugh and laugh. Yeah, he got what he deserved.

Chapter 6: Civilian Deaths

It was getting darker out. I decided, maybe it was time to give up on my quest for food and let the hunger lull myself to sleep. With my hat dusted off and my messenger bag loosely hanging off of a sloping shoulder, I started my search for the most desirable bench. I needed that perfect one- quaint, not so visible but not so hidden, and right in front of the pacifying water.

That one over by the fence looked nice. Wait- there was someone there. Nevermind. Maybe that one, that other one right next to the office building, but… no. I think that’s a whole family huddled under there. That one by the gas station? No… D****t. Taken. I guess that’s why Houston sends us all of their homeless people. Corpus has the perfect benches.

My search went on for maybe an hour. I crept across the whole expanse of the downtown, searching for at least one welcoming, unused bench to rest my weary head. Somehow, not a single bench was free. You know why that is? My whole life sucks. My world had flipped on its axis and everything good dropped off into a gaping universe in the process. I was nothing. I had nothing. Well, except for my hair. My hair was still okay. Amazing, with the humidity and all.

Aside from the humidity, the ground was dry, as cracked and fissured as a dented eggshell. I felt guilty, almost, as if it were asking me to quench its thirst. No, I can’t, earth. I’m sorry. You are not my responsibility. You are dying, but there is no way I could help. I don’t have the time, I don’t have the resources, and I don’t even have the motivation. I’m sorry, earth, it’s just not worth my time. Ask someone who can bring you back to life, not me. Besides, you know what that would do to my hair.

I really didn’t have any time to dwell on environmental issues. I had to deal with shelter, first. Eventually, I gave up on benches and headed instead for the long stairwell connecting the sidewalk to the ocean. Much to my surprise, I found an unoccupied gazebo hovering on a stretch of stairs. I laid my belongings down, zipped my messenger bag up so the thumb-sized cockroaches couldn’t make an entrance, and laid my head softly on top. Sticky air and sticky concrete molded into my body, protecting me with an unbreakable shield of stickiness. Maybe my shield wasn’t so practical for any realistic battles.

I settled, the hum of my angry stomach almost tranquilizing in a weird, abstract way. My eyelids started to droop, magnets attracting in a very natural and very human motion. I was to that point where sleep would whisk me away and send me to places where worldly issues were not a concern.

I didn’t get there. Instead, I saw another pair of eyes, a bright brown pair crouching beneath the bench opposite of me in the gazebo. It was all shadows and mystery. At first, I thought it was a demon, a supernatural force come to prey on my suffering being. Then, I thought it was a rat eating the grime off of the slimy cement floor. Then, I didn’t know what to think.

I just knew it wasn’t staying under the bench. Slowly, a shadowy figure emerged. It crouched on the ground for a second, then it rose up- no, she rose up. I could see that now. It was a slight female figure, grey and weathered. She was holding something.

What was that? Was that a knife? S**t, was that seriously a knife? Her dark glowing eyes grew steadily in width as she advanced. I was powerless. I was laying there and I was on my back, a flipped turtle frantically trying to right itself. I wanted to stand up and use my tough, imposing shell as a defense. Right now, I had no shell. I was totally vulnerable.

No, this couldn’t be right. Why me? Yeah, sure, this was the worst day ever, but this? Did I deserve this? Bricks piled one by one over my chest, waiting for me to push out my confession. I wasn’t guilty!

“Please, no! I’m too young! Why are you doing this? Please, no!”

My words were barely audible. I don’t think I even said words. All I could think of was my life, my fear of pain and death, and my hair. My f*****g hair. Why the hell was I thinking about hair? A whimper escaped my terrified, frozen lips, followed by a scream. True horror, the kind that gnaws on you and makes you feel like your stomach has been sawed in half, occupied all the white space in my body.

“Please, no! Please don’t kill me!”

“I don’t think this is going to kill you…” She responded. “It is probably very high in calories. I can’t tell in this light, but I don’t think it can kill you.”

She held half a Hershey bar with almonds inches from my eyes, understanding the lighting issue. I stared dumbfounded at the harmless chocolate.

“I think it might have almonds. I guess that could kill you, if you are allergic to nuts,” she said. The girl had a heavy accent. Something European, I couldn’t tell. She sat down across from me, absentmindedly crunching down on her half of the bar. My half had somehow landed in my numb palm. I tried to control my muscles enough to lift the chocolate to my lips. One bite. The sensation was incredible. I felt some color returning to my face.

“It’s okay, I won’t hurt you,” She cooed reassuringly. I guess my expression hadn’t changed yet. I didn’t remember how to change it. Gradually, I worked my features into mock normalcy. She laughed cheerfully at my effort.

“Here.” She grabbed my hand. “Come with me. You need to recover from your scare.” My hand in hers, she pulled me down to the shoreline.

Chapter 7: Finding the Person Behind the Statistics

She was not there. I mean, not yet. My near death experience was too fresh on my mind to permit her existence. It was the single most traumatizing, most horrifying situation I had yet to encounter. No words could put my fear into perspective. If I tried, I would say it was like dice fell on a side with the words “black hole” written across in tiny, typewriter print. I was gambling with the heavens, and I lost. Right then, I imagined my imminent death before it happened. I could feel the pain and I could feel my death. I had been stricken and it had numbed me. Then, a black hole grew out of nothing and proceeded to swallow up all the hope in my being and what little will I had left. That’s what being near death felt like for me.

The best part? It was over a chocolate bar.

“So, what are you doing out here?” A voice said. Oh, wait, it was that girl- that one I was walking with. Suddenly, she materialized next to me.

“It’s… a long… story,” I said slowly. It had taken a while to piece the words together in a sentence. Her joyful, carefree laugh sounded again at my forced effort.

“It is okay. Just calm down. I know I scared you. Things are scary here sometimes. I am glad right now that I have someone to talk to. Being very lonely is scary, too,” she said in almost perfect English. Her phrasing was a bit odd, but I understood.

The waves lapped up against the stairs like kitten tongues lapping water from a bowl. The moon and the streetlamps were shining sufficient enough light to see the girl more visibly. She looked maybe two or three years older than me. Her complexion was dark with heavy eyebrows and lids. Sallow, concave cheeks sat underneath jutting cheekbones. Black, wavy hair stayed loosely tied together with an old black string and hung all the way down her back. Her clothes were worn practically, without a hint of a style, and were probably about two sizes too large. She did not look at all like someone I would normally talk to. And yet, she intrigued me.

I think it was her eyes and her smile. Her eyes were round and bright, youthful and untouched. It was like she was seeing the world for the first time, and everything in the world was good. Her smile, likewise, was girlish and caring, like it was trying to offer itself as a gift. It didn’t matter that her lips were almost irreparably chapped. There was something very appealing in her character and it puzzled me. More than anything, it puzzled me how she could be sleeping in a gazebo but still have this extraordinarily pleasant disposition. Maybe she was insane.

“So, tell me, what is your name?” She asked in a tone like she was talking to an old friend. That question would kind of be weird to ask an old friend.

“Tam-my.” I stuttered, slowing gaining back my rebellious confidence. “Tammy Thomas,” I answered more proudly.

“Mine is Zara. How old are you, Tammy?” Zara. Sounds like Tsar. I wondered, maybe she was from Russia.

“I’m 16,” I answered.

“That is wonderful! Me, too!” She exclaimed. I had never seen someone so happy to be 16. “So, now, Tammy, tell me that long story. Why were you in the gazebo so late?”

“I had a pretty rough day,” I said, looking toward my feet, kicking tiny pebbles into the water. “Are you ready for this?” I grinned. I was definitely ready to impress someone with my tragic day. I mean, seriously, my day was hell, and it was about as bad as hell can get.

“Ready,” She replied, excited, as though she was in kindergarten and I was about to read her favorite bedtime story.

“Okay. My day started out like s**t and ended like multiplied s**t. First, I straightened my hair and then got into the shower. And, surprise, the water was freezing! Like, literally, freezing. Then, I drove to work, and my b***h Jesus freak boss fired me. I mean, how screwed up is that? When I got home, I needed a cigarette pretty badly. I went outside and my dad walked out when I was smoking one. He had no idea I smoked, and we’re pretty close, so I… I guess he was pretty pissed. He kicked me out. I mean… he didn’t say it or anything… but like, I just… anyways, I drove here, and I had no money, and hadn’t eaten anything all day. I walked into this coffee place and I couldn’t even afford a goddamned latte. So I sat on the curb and asked for change…”

“I saw you on the curb. That’s why I offered you the chocolate.”

“Oh? Well, yeah, I was starving. But everyone just ignored me. No one gave a s**t. So this guy came up to me with a sandwich he bought and offered it to me, and I mean, he was a huge a*****e… I had to throw it in his face, I just had to, because… um, that’s not really important. Anyways, I looked around for a bench to sleep on, but there were none. Just the gazebo. That’s what brought me there.”

Out of nowhere, Zara flung herself in my direction and threw her arms around me.

“I’m so sorry, Tammy.” The way she said it, it sounded more like Tommy. “Are you okay now?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, it sucked badly, and I don’t know how long it’ll take to get over it all, but I’m sure I’ll be fine…”

I didn’t want to say it, but I was enjoying the pity party I was getting. I was a victim, and I deserved sympathy.

“So, why are you here?” I inquired politely.

“Oh… Well, that is a long story, too. I will try to shorten it. You see, I came here from another town two years ago.”

“Like, San Antonio?”

“No. Grozny, Chechnya.” Oh. I think I heard of that country somewhere. Maybe a newscast. “Well, more recently, Ingushetia, Russia. They are right across the border from one another and I was a refugee living in an Internally Displaced Person camp. My family lived in an abandoned car factory. Conditions were bad, and I was the only child after my two brothers were killed in the war and my little sister died of heart problems, but my parents still saved up enough to help me get here.”

I guess I was in shock. She paused as though she had finished her story, but my silence probably made her think I wanted her to explain further.

“My mother has a sister here in Corpus Christi. Well, she had a sister here. News traveled slowly to our camp and my mother had not yet received the letter that her sister passed away of heart problems. My sister had those problems; heart disease runs in our family. But I have a strong family. Before the war, we were middle class and my parents had saved money. After we were placed in the camp, they wouldn’t buy an apartment in Ingushetia because they wanted to send me here. And they have!”

She smiled as though I should be smiling with her.

“I am in America! Look how wonderful things are here. There is no war, there is much wealth, and there are chocolate bars!” She took another grateful bite of her Hershey bar. “I am happy here! No, I do not have a house. And when I first arrived here, I prolonged my stay in the refugee center and homeless shelters. Out of pride and gratitude, I left. Now, I have a gazebo! I have been beaten and stolen from here when I sleep outside, but nothing worse than that. I even have a job here! I clean at that office building over there.” She pointed to the one I had almost slept outside of. “I will work and someday I will have an apartment. Someday I will bring Mama and Papa here!”

A huge smile engulfed the entire bottom half of her face. She embraced me again and I hugged her tightly back. Somehow, my problems suddenly seemed insignificant. It felt right.

“Does it hurt you?” I asked shyly, but I needed to know. How could she have been through so much and smile so freely? How could I have been through so little but crave the sympathy of others like an addiction? Suddenly I felt sick. And I wanted a cigarette.

“It hurt once. But how am I to live when pain hangs over my head like an angry shower?” I think she meant shower nozzle or something, but I didn’t say anything. “I work hard. I set my priorities. I keep myself busy. When I succeed, I am happy. In America, I succeed often, so I am always happy.”

“I guess I’m asking, how do you keep the sadness from overwhelming your happiness?” I needed to understand this.

“This is my choice. I do not want to pity myself and I don’t want anyone’s pity. This way, I live with freedom and honor. However, I do not deny help. It is human to help another person. That is the greatest satisfaction. One day, I will help other people. I will be human, too.”

The moon was shadowed by a thick, glossy cloud. The cloud did not hide it. On the contrary, it made the moon beautiful. The light defied all odds and shimmered through its thick obstacle.

I decided then, I will be the moon. I will shimmer with ferocity behind an obstacle and I will not let anything overwhelm me. Now that I had felt what a sufferer felt, I was no longer ignorant. I was empathetic.

Zara closed her eyes and breathed in the ocean mist. I found, standing next to her, I was happier than I could be with my “friends.” They were not human like she was. In such little time, I was in debt to the wisdom she had awarded me. As though the sea mist triggered some responsive neuron in her brain, she spontaneously leaned closer to me and whispered a single phrase in my ear.

“I am not a victim.”

The moon cloud burst open and poured sweet rain over the land and sea. I think I heard the land sigh in happiness when its thirst was quenched. Suddenly, I didn’t care about my hair.