“They’re two good friends of mine,” said Silverman. “They want to talk to you. If you’ve got time . . . ?”
“Gimme a ride cross town? That’ll free me up.” To us, she said, “I tell you: this gig, you got all the time in the world, an’ ain’t none of it your own.”
“Ride and a meal?” said Silverman.
“Deal.” She shook his hand. Then she yelled to the guy behind the lunch counter, “Hey, Jamal! Give my lunch to Pat, OK? You do that?” She threw him a grin. “I,” she said, “am dining out!”
She and Silverman sat in the backseat, talking up a storm. It was gossip, mostly, but listening in, I got a sense of how her life worked: a string of journeys back and forth across the city, most of them on foot, one free meal to the next, to the promise of a job, or the homeless shelter where she spent the night. It wasn’t just the miles; she carried her possessions with her, all the time. Even to a seasoned traveler like me, that seemed almost unimaginable. But she kept on talking, laughing, on and on.
Then Silverman asked her about div.
And she shut up.
“Stell . . . ?” he said.
She shuffled in her seat. “We ain’t seen that shit in, like, forever.”
She leaned forward, speaking more to Angel than to me, and said, “Paulie’ll tell you. I don’t do drugs, ’cept a little pot sometimes, when I gotta chill, yeah? Don’t do no drugs, ’cause I seen how fast you go down that way on the street. Don’t do no drugs, don’t fly no sign. Work when I can. That’s me. I been a waitress, beautician, short-order cook, receptionist, made shower-fittings in a factory. I don’t do no drugs . . .”
“Except . . . was it the one time? Stella?”
“—was in Seattle for a while, worked as a cook, I mean a real cook, made up my own recipes, should never’a left that job. Never’a come back here. But whadya gonna do, hey? Whadya gonna do ?”
We trekked around with her an hour or so. There were a couple of places with work going, she’d heard. Neither of them led to anything. Each time, she was quiet when she got back in the car. Then she and Silverman debated for a while, until they hit a deal: we’d take her to McDonald’s. After that, she’d talk.
She ate quickly. Delicately. She ate in tiny little pieces, picking at the meal with her fingers. Like a mouse, with fast, nibbling movements. But it didn’t stop her chatter even then.
“Hey, this is great, guys. Paulie here’s my best bud.” She clapped his shoulder. He put his head down, modestly. “Like I say, I never flown no sign. You gotta have respect for yourself, y’know? Else how’s anyone else gonna respect you, right? I see these guys—I’m homeless, help me out. Well, that ain’t me. But if my best bud Paulie wants to buy me lunch…?”
“Flying a sign—” said Silverman.
But she jumped in, quick to explain.
“See ’em in the doorway, or at the roadside, with a big card, off of a box lid, you know? Gimme dollars. Or, veteran. Yeah! Veteran, my ass! Sure, there’s veterans on the street, sure there is, I know ’em, Hollis and Limber-Up, but this ain’t those guys. I see ’em, I say, ‘Aw, hey! Get a job!’ That’s kinda like a joke,” she said.
I asked, “How long have you been homeless, Ms. Douglas?”
“Stella, it’s Stella. You’re with Paulie, you call me by my first name. Comin’ up on three years.” She took a bite, jaws working quickly. “Home’s a thing, easy to lose an’ hard to find. I’ll get there. Big thing, on the streets, you gotta keep yourself together. You gotta keep yourself goaled, see? All I want now, all I’m lookin’ for is steady money, like a paycheck every coupla weeks. Oh, honey,” to Angel, “I love the way you got your hair. That is way cool. No, once you’re down, pickin’ yourself up ain’t easy, even when you work.”
Silverman nodded. “You seen that movie?” he asked. “Documentary, true story. There’s a guy—working actor, lived on a rooftop for years, in the middle of Manhattan. I mean years. But he’d get up, put on a suit, shave in the public restroom—no one knew. Hits the street, he’s the best-dressed guy in town. It’s a great movie. Not one of mine, I’m afraid.”
“Put on a suit. Yeah. I’m down with that.” But to Angel, sotto voce, she said, “I tell you, hon, I ain’t shaved my legs in ten days now, ’cause I ain’t got no razor, and I am—oh, jeez, I am like bigfoot down there . . .”
She pushed the wrappings of her meal away. She’d eaten everything—even licked her finger to dab up the crumbs, the bits of burnt fries, the grains of salt.
Silverman said, “Stella, now. We need to ask you about div.”
She hesitated. Picked a last crumb from the paper.
Without looking up, she said, “You know I don’t talk ’bout that.”
“I know that, Stella. And I know this is going to be hard for you. But it’s really important.” Then he said, “I thought we had a deal.”