King of Her Desire

18

"The bitch" wasn't really going with me. Though I kind of wanted her to.

Cause she loved trains. She'd taken some of the killer ones in Europe—that Orient Express, even, she'd been on. It sounded mad elegant. In fact, they all kind of were, for a long time, even here. Linen tablecloths, real silverware and stuff.

Now, they're barely better than a bus. Seats are comfy and you have AC outlets and things at your seat, though. And on the train I took from LA, the legroom was amazing. I didn't feel cramped at all, and I'm real tall.

But Union Station, cool as it was—Deco as hell—had some serious homeless issues. Bus and train stations all have that problem now, really.

I had to sit in this scaled down waiting area that was guarded by station staff and these cops that were forever riding around there and around the tracks. And when I stopped at the bathroom the morning I got back in from Tucson, it was full of people trying to get that one sponge bath before the station people ran them out.

Had a PTSD moment, walking through. Remembering how I'd had to scam ways to stay clean not all that long ago.

I was obsessed with hygiene when I was on the streets. Cause there is nothing worse than seeing somebody go all stiff and smirky when you pass or sit by them. And I never forgot some mother snatching their kids away from us at a McDonald's playground one time, fanning the air and staring as they rushed away.

So I made it my business to never see that again. Even if I had to fill a couple of gallon jugs with water from some spigot somewhere and hide back up in some alley, I doused myself really good every day. More than once, in the summer.

And I knew where I could wash my clothes by hand if I had to. Plus, a few apartment buildings had unlocked laundry rooms I could sneak into at odd hours. I'd throw my stuff in and leave right quick. Snatch them out of the dryer and walk off as nonchalant as possible.

I still look out for places like that to this day wherever I go. It's a habit. My eyes go into survival mode naturally, looking for all kinds of things I used to need.

The tiny little Tucson station was pretty much just deserted, though, on my trips home. Except for a few people getting on the Texas Eagle heading for Chicago and New Orleans. I didn't have any luggage to wait for, so I'd sail right on through to the restaurant I told you about.

Gerri was there that first time with the weebles and Sochi. But she was heading for one of her "woo woo" weekends right after breakfast. Sedona, this time. Some kind of gathering for older women. "Crones" they called themselves.

The definition of that word was "an old woman who is thin and ugly." I looked it up. And Gerri wasn't thin or ugly—wasn't all that old, either. But then I checked it out a little more and found out they were considered "wise women," too. Sassy babes with powers that they can use for good or evil. So I was down with that and didn't try to talk her out of going.

The restaurant was kind of a hipster place. Same foodie food I was just getting used to. All these fancy sandwiches with unpronounceable cheeses and whatnot that nobody in my family ever heard of. If it wasn't Oscar Mayer with mayo, we didn't fuck with it.

The waitresses ate me up, though. With their eyes. And some of the customers. Male and female. I just smiled back but kept winding my way through.