Princess

This is another re-post from HomePDX. It's a story that is too good not to share.


Princess

I was wandering, completely lost in reverie about my latest epiphany. Here it is: Did you know that the courthouse I was circumnavigating was the "courthouse" mentioned in the name of Portland's Pioneer Courthouse Square? Mind-boggling. It's only taken me ten years of living here to figure that out. Quick mind. Quick wit. Here's how it went: year one, learning the name of Pioneer Courthouse Square; year one, discovering that the building across the street is a courthouse; year ten, putting it all together! How long would it have taken lesser minds to make that arcane connection? I don't know but thank God I'm here to point these things out.

I rounded the corner of Morrison Street and started up 6th Ave. to the south and half noticed a young woman standing near the far corner. As I approached she eyed me and stuck out her hand, "Hi." ... Heroin. Heavy eyelids, pinned pupils, droopy facial muscles, cold, clammy hands. Her soul was invisible, shrouded in a dense drug fog. She was kind of pretty, in a round-faced sort of way. Late teens, early twenties maybe. Black shiny hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, khakis, tan, not too dirty, a black, long-sleeved, turtleneck sweater (the long sleeves hid the track marks well). Her fingernails had been painted black within the last week or so. It was chipped, but not too bad. Her hands were mostly clean. She had brown-black eyes that were alive and inquisitive and at the same time old and sad.

I responded to the handshake while sizing her up, thinking, "What's the angle here?" The greeting had the feel of one of those kiosks at the mall where the girl says, "Can I ask you a question?" She doesn't really want to hear from you; she just wants to sell you some overpriced, overly perfumed hand cream. "Leave me alone," I think as I politely say, "No Thanks." I was on my guard. Wary.

"What's up?"

"Not much."

"Nice evening, huh?"

"Yeah."

"All I've got is a buck." I gave it to her and with that I walked away.

"Thanks, Ken! God bless you," she shouted sweetly as I rounded the corner on Yamhill.

"Ken." She knew my name. And in a crashing, blinding instant I understood. I had just examined, categorized, sliced, diced, chewed and spit out somebody's Princess. She was or at least should have been somebody's Princess; laughing and twirling and dancing in an over sized Sleeping Beauty dress to the joyous tears and applause of her admirers. Years later, Prince Charming should have scooped her up onto his white horse and galloped to their castle in the clouds where they would live happily ever after. But no, today she got an armful of heroin, and me. And I blew her off. I panicked and ran home, not stopping to talk to anyone along the way.

Back in in my apartment, electrified with my own shame, I tried to look back on what had just happened. Thinking error? Maybe. But more likely a heart error. It's easier for me than I would like to admit to become hardened, know too much of the ins and outs of the street scene here in Portland and look for the sales pitch. I get tired of the pain all around me and inside of me. Today there were no hidden motives on her part. Just a little girl, a Princess, who wanted a few kind words from a man who wouldn't hurt or use her, a man she knew. She wanted me to see her, actually see her, but I was blinded by cynicism and self- protection.

"God, make me gullible again, innocent again. Wash away the layers of grime that have built up on my heart just by being alive and brushing up against so many hurting people for so long. Reopen my eyes to the beauty of the Princesses and Princes of the street"

I've seen "Shauna" several times since. She throws her arms around me now and just holds on…or she's too loaded to recognize me. Either way, she's forgiven and forgotten my coldness on that warm August evening. That's what a Princess does.

Love,
Ken