I shouldn’t obsess about daddy. It’s just that every time I see him, I get sad. Him begging for money in those raggedy robes. I’ve never met a man who was stronger than a woman. Looking at him, I never will. That’s all there is to it.
I cinch the bungee cord yoking my sweatpants, then I do the latest installment of the Prolixin shuffle up E Street, my cardboard slippers swishing on the pavement. I get a hundred yards before a rat jumps from a palm tree. My force field repulses it—the rat misses me and hits the sidewalk. I point a finger at the sky. I point a finger at the ground. I point a finger at myself. I keep shuffling.
The Blessed World Church is on Arrowhead by the old courthouse—it’s in a rundown suite at the rear of a desert-style deco office building. I shuffle through the entrance into the reception area. Past tables stacked with dog-eared AARP magazines. Past rows of pastel orange cubicles, each one with a consumer and their social worker. I stop at the last one.
“Rick? I’m here.”
My caseworker slams shut his desk drawer—but not fast enough—I see the dime bag in it. I know he’s shooting dope because he wears a goose-down parka indoors when the room temperature is triple digits. I’d love to see his arms. Two to one, he’s got tracks from here to Canada.
“Sugar Child. It’s wonderful to see you.”
Rick ushers me into his cubicle like an old maid fussing over her dying cat. There are potted palms and wind chimes, a dwarfed white aluminum Christmas tree standing sentry in the corner. I settle onto a couch with no cushions. I haven’t bathed in four days. My hair is nubby. My eyes are screaming. Don the policeman chuckles: you’re damn ugly with no wig.
“How you doing today, Sugar Child?”
“Kind of weird.”
“You look like shit.”
“Great. I feel better already.”
“Let me get you booked into a treatment program.”
“No.”
“Why not? You need to get off the street.”
Rick drones on. All I hear is the drip-drip of his voice in my head as a curtain of Prolixin dullness washes over me.
“This isn’t good.” Rick’s tone downshifts from convivial to clinical—the gears in a two-tone personality. “You sick? You got hep C?”
“No.”
“You sure? You don’t have to lie. Everyone has it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve got it, if you want to know the truth. It’s no big deal. I’m on antiviral medication. I get acupuncture. I take Chinese herbs. I’m doing fabulous.”
“I tested negative.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”
“I’m here for you, Sugar Child. I am committed to your reentry into society. But you need to get into treatment. At Blessed World we have a saying. You know what it is?”
“No.”
“Treatment is liberation.”
“Okay.”
I squint at him. I’m not into elaborations—why wear a dress when you can go naked? I have no idea where he shoots up. He can’t do it in the bathrooms here because they have security cameras. And he doesn’t seem like the type to hit up in the street. Too prissy.
“That’s it for now, Sugar Child. I have more appointments and stuff. You can see yourself out.”
Instead of leaving the building I make a detour into an unlit hallway. There’s not much to look at. Conference rooms. Single-stall male and female restrooms. All the doors are locked except for one. Abracadabra: I slip into a storage closet overflowing with Christmas donations.
Toys, dishes, tuxedos, rice cookers, lawn furniture. One box shelters a floor-length silver lamé ballroom gown with frayed spaghetti straps. A magnificent garment. Fragile, yet brazen. Audrey Hepburn. Stuffing it in my sweatpants, I hobble back into the hallway and ghost past the security guards at the front door to the street.
Outside, dusk cloaks E Street—an enchanted fairyland where goodness grows on palm trees and the sidewalks are paved with food stamps. Don the policeman is outraged: you’re a jerk. What the fuck is with you? Why didn’t you get any SRO housing vouchers from Rick? I want air conditioning. I want it now.