Every Mask I Make

The Begger

I've used to take the Northbound train to Brickell Station and from there ride the bus route 8 home for a couple of years. The luxurious apartment lights shine bright enough to black out the starry sky. Even during the night hours, Brickell doesn't have a lot of homeless people laying around the block except by the train station. I didn't felt comfortable taking a 20-minute train ride towards Downtown/Brickell area. But when you don't drive and must rely on the lethargic Bus Route 73 to get to work, you don't deserve options.

One fateful night, I got off the train at Brickell station while talking to my aunt. My feet graced the descending escalators as I got a better view of the 7-Eleven store near the corner of 11th street. The station is normally filled with plenty of people hanging around the bus stops. Occasionally, the reggaeton music vibrated threw the air; bringing Camaros and Corvettes zoomed by. Not tonight. There were only about 15 people at the stop, including myself. I don't know. I didn't count. I was approaching closer toward the Route 8 stop; a homeless woman was talking to a businessman in a navy-blue suit. I didn't think much of it. After all, it's normal for homeless people (the more stable individuals) to have a decent conversation with regular people. I turned and that same woman appeared right in front of me. She was about 5 feet- 5 inches tall with messy dirty blonde hair, an extra-large worn-down black T-shirt, ripped sweatpants, and dirty feet that released a stench within a 5-kilometer radius. I could tell from her exhausted 34-year-old hazel eyes that she's gone through hell.

"Is there something I can help with?" I politely asked while giving the most cringiest salesman smile I can muster.

Silence stood between us for a couple of minutes. The knots began to curl up inside my intestines as the air began feel....... Awkward......like accidentally hooking up with an ex-girlfriend kind of awkward. After what seem like forever, she finally spoke.... Only to manage to spit out "i's" and "e's". When I said that I tried to make out the words that she was trying to convey, I genuinely stopped and listened to see if I can form a sentence in my head.

"I'm sorry ma'am," I said with a frown, "If I can't understand you, then I can't help you."

With nothing else to say, I took a couple of steps back and began to walk away. A series of muffled steps soon followed. I didn't want to look behind me, but I felt my airways lock up. I tried taking a detour by going to the south side of the station. Still following me. Tried going to Dunkin Donuts across the street slipping out unnoticed. Nothing. Hiding inside of Publix for 25 minutes? Still behind me.

My heart began to panic as my blood rushed through every fiber of my muscles. I was breathing like a dog. I couldn't stop shivering from the chills that kept slithering down my spine. About 35 minutes later, the bus that destined for Florida International University had finally made an appearance. Finally. My ticket to freedom was finally within reach like every final girl in a horror flick. Wrong. Dead wrong. The beggar was still on my heels as I climbed on to the bus. As the rest of the passengers were oblivious to their surroundings, I asked the bus driver to lean closer, so I don't cause a massive hysteria.

"Excuse me," I whispered, "Is there any way you can ask her to get off the bus? She's been following for the past 15 minutes."

The bus driver looked at me with a furrowed brow, then turned towards the woman, and back at me with a perplexed look on his face.

"Listen kid," said the bus driver in a heavy Cuban accent, "You know that I can't do that unless she's doing something wrong. Now if you really feel unsafe, then sit by the front,"

Disappointed, I complied with his request and kept an eye on the woman; now sitting in the back seat while observing me with her predatory hazel eyes. The bus flew through 10th and 17th avenues, and she moved one seat closer. Her rotten smile sends extra shivers down my veins. I lightly tapped my feet rapidly, praying that I can finally get off the damn bus and run home. Douglas Road. She's already swaying by the rear exit. LeJeune Road. She managed to reach 3 seats behind me without the bus driver noticing. As I passed Sedano's supermarket on Southwest 8th street and 49th avenue, I realized that if I get off now then she will most likely follow me home.

By the time the bus reached 51st avenue, I yanked the yellow cord so hard that I thought that I made the bus ceiling collapse. I turned to walk out of the front door when I noticed the homeless woman exited through the back door. The bus driver yelled for me to run, pointing the next stop at 8th street and 57th avenue. I quickly scanned the streets for cars. Nobody. I sprinted across the street and into the shadowy Coral Gables neighborhood. She tried to follow, but I knew that I'll make her eat the dust faster than both Busta Rhymes and Eminem rapping combined. Twist and turns into the dark forest of trees and mansions, yet I dared not to look back. I finally managed to reach the same street where Cooper Park is and slowed down to catch my breathe. After gathering my guts back together, I calmly dragged my feet home. Ever since that night, I refuse to be in Brickell at night and change my route to Vizcaya Station. Sure, it was darker than my hair, but I rather be there alone than to be surrounded by bystanders who won't help.