T’was before Covid, but after aids. Before trump, but after Lewinsky. Somewhere in-between the hullabaloo of life existed a fire haired girl who loved her grandma dearly. “Old people get it” she’d tell her mother when being lambasted over her makeup or the length of her skirt. “Marry while you’re still pretty dear.” Grandma knew that looks don’t last and men are seldom interested in an IQ. No matter what modern men said, they all wanted two things. A cooked meal when they come home, without having to think about which vegetable they would have to accost in silence. Meat, potatoes, and vegetables somehow disguised as something not abominable. And the word “yes” whenever they asked. “Men are simple.” Old people really get it.
“Your grandma is sick” her mother said matter-of-factly. She needs some supplies. Cough syrup, weed, something for the pain, and a new iPhone charger . Will you take the subway and deliver it to her apartment please? “Why does she not live with us?” “Your grandmother has not lost her looks yet.” The fire-haired girl smiled. “Sure, I’ll take it to grandma.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, grandma was huffing from the cough and puffing from, well, you know. A knock at the door startled the old, usually chill, lady. A quick stab to the neck and the old lady disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Taking the elevator to grandma’s was daunting. The top floor of the highest building in the city. Grandma was not rich, she knew rich men who showed their gratitude for her beauty. Noticing the door ajar, her heart leaped. She had mace and an online masterclass in Aikido on her side, but she was not convinced that it will do the trick against whatever lurked behind the door. At first glance everything seemed in order. The apartment was as she knew it to be, except for the bedroom. The bedroom door was closed. Much to her dismay, grandma never closed the door. Today, it was closed.
“Who’s there?” She warbled. “It’s me dear.” She recognised the voice, but it lacked the raspy quality she had come to know and adore. “Why is your door closed?” “I had a fall.” She rushed to open the door without thinking about the logic of the matter. The assailant waited and struck. Her hair turned a forlorn shade of brown. It was over.
Growing up I don’t remember a time not knowing what a hooker was or what drugs were. Knowing what hookers did was unclear, but I knew it was not something that happened during the day. Point road was one of the main roads downtown in the city close to our little town. It was famous. Famous for hosting ladies of the night, homeless of the night and whomever opted for nightly dalliances at a cost.
I remember coming up to the road and my mother telling my father: “Take point road, it's time for school.” At the time it terrified me. My mother would make me use the middle back seat, buckle up, and she would move her seat all the way back to be close to next to me in the back.
“Drive slow” she said. “Okay” my dad said. “Look to the left, red top - hooker!” “Hooker” I would repeat, my young brain trying to calculate the mechanics of what I’m saying. “Do you know why she’s a hooker” my mom said.” “DRUGS!” She would yell. “Look to the right” “Shaking hooker.” “Shaking hooker” I repeated. “Why is the hooker shaking?” “Drug Detox!” “Detox” I would say. “Look next to the homeless guy!” “Dancing hooker!” Why is she dancing? “Hooker on ecstacy” “on ecstacy” I said. “Look next to the trash flame.” “Ugly hooker!” Why is she is ugly, I asked. “Hooker on Meth, fucked up her face.”
“WILL YOU DO DRUGS, WILL YOU DO DRUG?” My mother shook me until I said no. We had this lesson often.
Walking in a market area, things were, to say the least and to be as polite as humanly possible, uncommon. Centipedes in polystyrene boxes, crawling their crawls on the others that crawl. Scorpions on the chopping block being coaxed into submission by the little hands of a child with little slits for eyes.
The air was thick with the pungency of what could only be described as death-because-dinner. Around me more black heads come and go, unphased by the apparent terrarium butchering happening all around them.
The lizard cook chopped the heads off of the little guys as if he’s been doing it for years. Soups made of whatever could be caught that day fill giant pots heated by fires hotter than the surface of the sun.
Handfuls of chilli are everywhere, supposedly to mask the real taste of what would be eaten.
The floor of the market told the story of who was there, mostly in the form of DNA. Vacating one’s sinuses seems the norm rather than something you would do with only yourself to shame you. I vaguely remember seeing a parent fold a baby in half on the side, against a closed down market shop. Everything here is different from what I’m used to.
As I continued my descent into the next circle of hell, I felt a slither. You need to understand the following. If I have to wear shoes, I will always try to get away with the bare minimum. At that time, at the time of this story, I was wearing slip on sandals. This means that I had nothing protecting my feet from whatever decided to challenge my ego that day.
Getting back to the slither. I was cold, it was wet, it was cold. What happened next is not something I’m proud of, but nevertheless, it happened. As the slither made its way across my foot, I did what any sane person would do. I kicked. What I was not accounting for was the lack of friction between my foot and my shoe. As my leg reached its natural stopping point, Newton compelled my shoe forward. Time had stopped around me. My size 12 shoe was flying across the market. People were moving slower and slower, all following my shoe like a game of tennis.
As one does, I shouted, to avoid anyone getting hurt by the inevitable result of gravity. . My shoe landed in a giant pot of orange coloured soup. At that moment I spoke the language fluently. I’m sorry, I kept saying I'm sorry until the vendor cleaned his grandma’s, who was sitting next to the pot, checking the soup, face. I have never seen an old person hate before, they are usually too wise for all that nonsense, but that day, I witnessed it. Being hated by an old person is not just her hate for you which punches you in the gut, it's the hate of everyone she decided not to hate in the past. A cornucopia of emotions all contained in milky, cataract, slit eyes. I had to get out, but my shoe, my shoe, was still cooking.
In that moment, I was thinking a million things at once, but the main thing was “where will I find another shoe that size, that one is from home.” My embarrassment continued. My shoe started to float, possibly because it was ready to serve, who knows. I grabbed it by the bridge and ran. Ran is maybe a strong word. I hopped-jumped with only one foot protected by a shoe. I have not returned to the market since.
She sat on the park bench. Ducks akimbo and the sun out back. She was waiting. Waiting for someone, who was not known. A person with a face, arms, and legs. She didn't know why, she just waited. "If we pull this off, we're set for life!" A voice said behind her. As the silence punctuated the sentence, she could feel a rush of memories, knowledge and training flooding her brain like endorphins after feeling the right amount of pain. The person was gone. The person didn't matter. All that mattered was code. "If we pull this off, we're set for life!"
Joan was activated. Why was unclear, but she knew she had where she had to report to.
