Crack Whore Leggings

I just had an adventure at the library. I noticed a woman exit the library who was colorfully dressed. My sartorial ignorance is profound, my diction for materials impoverished, but I’m going to say that the dress material was a synthetic with a high sheen, great for color. And the print was lively as well as abstract. A good looking woman with a good trim body, adult but not old, shimmering with color and movement: the dress was loose fitting and swirled on her, perfect for this latest in a series of sunny Florida May days with the temperature ninety-five and the breeze only moderate. But then I noticed something else: underneath this flowing dress she was wearing leggings! like an Indian woman would wear. The leggings were also colorful, variously textured; but how could she stand it? It had been ninety-five since 9:30 this morning! I was in a tee shirt, washed denim short shorts, and open all around sandals (and I would have been wearing only the sandals had society permitted public nakedness!) (I guess I would have also needed a pocket on a thong around my neck to carry my library card, debit card, keys.)

I remained on line at the library counter, still checking stuff out. But that’s life. So I was only grumbling mildly as I left, well behind the exit of the oddly garbed woman, who, had I been able to cross her path, would have gotten a whistle from me, or I’d have said Hello, flirting with her, acknowledging her, in some way: despite my being seventy-two and then some whereas she was, I don’t know … just approaching middle age. But lo and behold, the woman wasn’t far ahead of me at all, she’d paused at the gazebo and was seated on the bench with a cell phone poised. I marched right up to her. She acknowledged my approach with a Hello, and held off dialing her phone. I said, “That sure is a colorful dress: perfect for a hot day like today. But tell me, how come you’re wearing long drawers under it?”

She answered straight off: “I live in a poor neighborhood. People see a white woman living there, they assume I’m a crack whore. So they’re always lifting my dress to look at my ass, figuring I’ve got no underwear on.”

That’s not an answer even I expect from a strange female I’ve been speaking to for all of five seconds.

“I’ve been rich, but now I’m poor,” she continued. People are supposed to treat rich and poor the same, but they don’t.”
“I’ve been both rich and poor,” I added. I know exactly what you’re saying.

We chatted a bit more, everything she said funny to me, but after a few minutes I told her that I was glad I’d gone out of my way to flit with her, but I’d leave her now to her phone call. Back at my car though i decided to note the name of this blog for her. I jotted PKnatz on a piece of paper and returned to the gazebo, offering it to her “in case she wanted to know who she’d been talking to.”

“What’s your rant?” is how she expressed one of her questions in the next series. I was really digging this girl.
Abruptly she asked if I had photo ID. I patted myself down, and there was my wallet: I fished out my drivers license. “I want to see if you’re who you say you are.”
After a close scrutiny, she added, “And how long ago did you print this?” I thought her rudeness was hysterical.


I’m glad to report that there’s a sequel. Yesterday, the two week loan period for my library books etc was up: so I was back at the library. The last thing she’d told me two weeks ago was her name. I’d written my name for her, the same as this blog name; she told me hers. BB. I’ll call her by her initials here. There was a listing in the phone book, but when I dialed it the man who answered told me he’d had that number for months now: but, he knew who I was looking for: I started the description, he finished it. So I’d planned to scout around yesterday, the trailer park in question, indeed in a poor neighborhood, not far from downtown Sebring, not far from the library. I circled the park, I asked a neighbor, I was pointed straight to BB.

She was home, family up to the rafters. Again she was funny, a real character. She continued to ask good questions. Like many a person she didn’t listen to the answers, but she asked really good questions. Once again, right off, I found myself introducing myself, chapter two, by referring to Ivan Illich. She’d forgotten what I’d already told her, but again asked the right questions about Monseigneur Illich: so right i decided she had to have had a Roman Catholic upbringing. So I asked her, “Are you Roman Catholic?”

And she answered:

I’m whatever I need to be at the moment!

I told this story this morning to my beloved Bonnie, having failed to get around to it last night, between our going to a restaurant, watching Atlantic City on a DVD, being already tired … And Bonnie said, “Well, don’t bring her around here!”

About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
This entry was posted in chronological pk, old age, pk Personal, stories. Bookmark the permalink.

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