It was the green fire of the homeless woman's eyes; dazzling in the September morning sunlight, that kept Victria's attention. Otherwise, the woman, somewhere in her early to mid twenties, was remarkable only in that she happened to be picking through a curb side trash receptacle; wearing a thread bare Cowboys sweat shirt, dingy gray jeans with a plastic shopping bag tied to the belt loop above her left hip and a fairly new yet quite hideously electric orange pair of tennis shoes. But, as Victria crossed the temporarily empty four lanes of Main Street, the clack of her high heels resonating between the insurance high rises on either side, the young marketing executive, age twenty-seven, was stirred by the woman's despairing yet valiant regard.
Under normal circumstances, Victria wouldn't have bothered to devote such attention; not ever having been the kind of person to give one in such a pitiful state much more than the time of day. The woman had been oblivious to Victria's approach along the cross walk, gathering returnable bottles and cans and stuffing them into her bag, until the click clack of Victria's heels drew her attention. The woman looked up, quickly assessed Victria from shoes to shoulders, and then matched her gaze.
Victria didn't look away, but turned her body toward a different direction than she'd originally intended. In that instant, a new look of shame and defiance burned in the woman's eyes, which only served to provoke Victria further. It was the homeless woman who looked away first. Pauper or princess, Victria was not accustomed to having it any other way. She was an alpha female, evolved through middle management to finally become a junior executive. Now, she had an office in her financial firm's executive suite, and as long as she continued to make hairline fractures in the glass ceiling, she would earn her way to becoming the firm's next chief risk officer.
Dressed in her work life finery; severe in her black blazer, blouse, pencil skirt and gleaming black pumps, Victria made her way in a confident, easy pace. The street's hustle bustle bled back into the world in a rush of bass booming cars, city buses, colorful folk languages and profanities, cell phone chatter and the occasional rippling coo of a pigeon. Slowing her stride, Victria looked over her shoulder to see that the woman had moved on to another trash can.
From a distance of thirty or so feet, Victria stopped, and turned to watch the woman rummage for more returnables. A staunch conservative, she never once wavered from her belief that everyone should pull themselves up by their boot straps and make a life for themselves. Surely, the homeless could find opportunity beyond the rim of a trash can. Yet the woman gave Victria the sudden sense that perhaps not everyone was truly able to surmount certain circumstances. Victria knew she could be wrong, at least once, maybe twice. Ultimately though, it was also her policy to never assume anything about anybody worth taking seriously, and the woman struck her as someone to be taken as such.
It was the mystery behind the woman's intense green eyes that drove Victria's curiosity. What was the more that had yet to meet my eye, Victria asked herself. It was the bottom line gut question that guided her problem product assessment in the office, and certainly had its application in the world outside of work. How do I brand her? What kind of packaging is going to dazzle the buyer? As Victria watched stray strands of the woman's otherwise bun bound brown hair glow in the early morning light, she felt a sudden blush dally its way along her chest, neck and cheeks.
Victria began to casually stroll her way back. She observed the woman, having plucked enough bottles and cans to fill her first bag, tug another from a back pocket and secure it to the belt loop over her right hip. Victria surreptitiously scanned the faces of passersby before letting her eyes fall back on the woman and affecting her lips to rise slightly to form a small, roguish smile. Briefly, she'd entertained the notion that the woman wasn't actually homeless, but fishing through trash as some cover or possibly as some method of diversion; like those that enjoy attending the funerals of strangers or those who pretend to be sick just to get into a hospital.
However, upon further assessment, Victria became certain that the pretty green eyed woman was truly without a home of her own. It was in the way the pigeons crowded around her feet, as if they'd been accustomed to the woman finding them crusts of bread, and how she simply ignored what looked like a small swarm of bees buzzing around her long fingered hands as she sifted through the garbage. Closing the distance, Victria mused over the fact that if she hadn't driven in as early as she had, to take part in a Women in Business Network breakfast meeting, she wouldn't have the opportunity to take the risk she was about to take.
The street woman, her face glowing with the light of the risen sun, seemed oblivious to the small swarm of bees flying tight holding patterns around her arms. Reaching into the trash can, she pulled out two honey bee spotted plastic bottles at once, gave them a sudden, slight, shake, which sent the bees hovering off beyond the rim of the can so that she could tuck the bottles into her second bag. Reaching back into the festering garbage, four more bees began to crawl across her knuckles as she reached for a can of orange soda, which she slowly turned bottom side up to drain its remaining contents into the trash. The bees followed the drips, leaving her to withdraw the can.
"Hey!"
The street woman turned her gaze down toward the pigeons that had flocked around her feet, and were now parting, some nervously flapping away.
"That's my trash can!" announced the voice.
The woman blew a frustrated sigh, rolled her eyes, and then settled them onto the person behind her: a tall, blonde wigged, stern faced black woman, wearing a black hoody that was much too small and black jeans that were much too big.
"Those be my motha fuckin bottles and cans." She continued, wide eyed and scowling, "Give em here!"
The smaller woman slowly raised her hands, open palms up, as if to make an appeal; her expression a spluttering squall of consternation, defeat and ultimate resignation. It wasn't the first time the big woman bullied her for her returns. She knew her from the self organized black section of the Main Street shelter's dorm room. She'd tried to reason with the big woman before, whom the others called Hennessy, but it never worked. Speechless, the small woman hesitated before finally reaching to loose one of the bags hanging from her waist.
"You don't have to give those to her."
The two simultaneously turned to face Victria; smartly dressed, poised, no nonsense, arms folded across her chest, a musing finger stroking the small valley between her bottom lip and chin, straight and shiney chestnut shoulder length hair topping her not so imposing five foot four frame.
"She took her sweet time getting here," continued Victria; leveling her gaze at the big woman, "And now expects to just take the spoils of your efforts? I don't think so."
"What the fuck you tawkin about lady?" the big woman blustered as she took a step toward Victria, "This ain't none ya biznis."
"I just made it my bizniz. This woman is clearly driven by the entrepreneurial spirit and as an American; she is entitled to keep the fruits of her labor. I saw you three blocks down, strolling over here like you had nowhere to be. And then you just roll up on this girl and expect her to just give up her booty?"
"Yo I ain't be wantin no white girl booty. I just want the mother fuckin cans yo."
"She can have the cans." the other woman said, glancing at Victria.
"No she can't Miss."
The two wayward women exchanged looks; their expressions seeming to ask the same question of one another: Well; aren't you going to take care of this? Presently, the black woman took another step closer to her fellow vagabond.
"Yes I can." She growled, "Come on yo, give em up."
It was Victria who made the next move; taking a step nearer to the big woman.
"Absolutely not." She insisted, "Give me the bags Miss."
Victria quickly unfolded her arms and held out an open palm, her gaze never leaving the large woman. The smaller woman, though perhaps an inch or two taller than Victria, paused, and then glanced between the rich looking trouble maker and her large nemesis. Presently, she untied the bags from her belt loops. The woman paused a second time before finally handing them to Victria.
