Business is Business

There was I, once again walking in the park... wait, I know. You might be thinking by now, that this "walking in the park" thing is a cliché…and you´re ABSOLUTELY right. However, living literally in front of it, as I do, and having no time for anything but work and my coffee worshipping daily routine , it ends up being an unavoidable cliché, so with that out of the way…
There was I, coming back from a coffee break, when I spotted Jim and Priscilla (Priscilla, is my sister´s name and since she asked not to mention her real name, and I am not creative enough to think of a different one, here we are), sitting on the ground, three or four pieces of fried chicken bought at Safeway, the very chicken that I have to fight with all my strength to avoid, whenever I go to the grocery store (yummy). A little bit shy as I am, I walked around them a bit before finally taking a deep breath, introducing myself, and, as if it was part of my name, also explaining the idea of the project. This time, however, and it surely made the interaction even more interesting; things took a totally different path than it did before. As soon as I introduced myself, Priscilla, before even answering anything, looked at me, but instead of looking into my face (like Jimmy and James had done), she looked to my left hand, straight at my camera, raising an of her eyebrows, as if I had just crossed her personal-space line :

"Are you a cop or something?" She asked.

"I am wearing flip-flops and soccer shorts; do I look like a cop? I replied.

At that moment I remember crossing through my mind a Discovery Channel´s show, that kind where the show-man tries to connect with the wildlife creature, but we have no clue how the story will end up.

-" I don’t know. I am not sure if a cop has to look like something," She challenged.

"Well neither do I, but I am not one. You tell me," I sent back, with the best sarcastic look I could put on.
She smiled at me, and I finally felt like the ritual of trust was over.
"You can talk to me and take pictures, but you will have to pay. That would be five."
"Fair enough," I thought, and nodded.
Priscilla is from Oregon, and has never been anywhere else. Her mother died when she was only nine months, a victim of a brain stroke. According to her, her mother was an alcoholic and used to burn her with cigarette butts and put wine instead of milk on her bottle, so she wouldn´t cry over night. After her mom´s death Priscilla´s father got married again: "I was like Cinderella, but as you can see… "She stopped, and took another bite of the piece of chicken, as if she wanted me to know the next words. I shamefully, did know what she meant: "…as I can see, she didn´t have the happy ending". Priscilla told me she was neglected, physically sexually and verbally abused during her childhood, and that her dad and step mother would hate her and consider her an issue in their relationship.
I finally felt like we´re getting there, that we were having the connection that I expect whenever I approach a homeless person. She was being so open and sincere, but all the sudden, as if she had awakened from a mental state of numbness, the brightness in her eyes was gone: "So are you taking the damn pictures or not? I don’t have the entire day, and btw where is my money?" I felt embarrassed almost intrusive, alas, I knew I was.


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