Hear No Evil 2

This story is the result of a request featuring a deaf homeless woman. This is more story than sex although the two main characters do finally reach that end.

Anyone engaged in sex is 18 or older

*

Hear No Evil

I was washing the sidewalk in front of my produce store just as I had thousands of times before, a store that had been started by my Korean grandparent's decades prior. When they began they were one of a dozen fruit/produce stores lining a three block stretch known then as produce row, along with the produce shops were two bakers, one for the Italians the other for the Germans, a butcher shop, a cobbler, a tinker, millinery store and several other assorted small shops.

Behind the businesses were alleys where product would be delivered and then displayed out front. It wasn't uncommon for my grandmother or mother to be out front sweeping the sidewalk, later we began washing it down every morning as I was doing now. As supermarkets and chain stores became the main source of most family's food and household purchases shop after shop closed, the first to go was the tinker, plastic had taken over what a tinner could do. Followed by the millinery shop, three produce places and the German bakery, eventually the butcher, no one wanted to travel for fresh cut meats when they could grab a package at the grocery store.

Little by little year after year we watched the demise of produce row, it was the yuppies and dinks buying the old two-story shops and converting them into apartments, save we remaining few. It was Gagliano's Produce, Canforas Italian Bread, Sam's Shoe Repair, and me, Jeong Produce that had survived the modernization of what was once three blocks of thriving small businesses. Gagliano's serviced only commercial vendors, restaurants, grocery stores, places like that, my clientele was mostly long term customers, typically people wanting fresh fruit and produce, along with the yuppies moving in came the *organic and fresh foods* novelty buying.

Since Gagliano's was all commercial, most local sales were through my shop, many of the people living in these upscale apartments worked in the downtown area and would stop in on their way to or from work. My shop looked like the ones you see in photos from years ago, I have bins and counters along the front with a much larger selection inside the store. Before the vandals and thugs took over after dark destroying everything in their path, we would leave the tables out front overnight, now I have them on wheels and bring them inside about five PM.

The original store had been thirty feet wide by sixty feet long, when my folks took over from my grandparents, they bought the empty store next door, a building the same size. Once an opening between both stores with an automatic fire door was created, they opened the adjoining front sections thirty feet deep and erected walk-in coolers in the back half of one store. I was in my early teens during the expansion and though everyone including my grandparents still worked in the store it was an all hands on deck situation six days a week, we kids worked before we went to school and after most days.

It's just the way it was, families worked together to survive and grow, I grew to hate it. Unfortunately I fell in with a bad group during my mid-teens, we were all Orientals and became a gang to some degree, turf battles went on with the Latin and black gangs wanting the same territory, by the time I was eighteen and had graduated I was so deep into the gang lifestyle there seemed to be no redemption for me. I ran the streets, sold drugs, boosted cars for chop shops, sold weapons from time to time, all shit that would eventually land my Korean ass in the state penitentiary for seven years.

Unlike so many of the guys I had run with I chose to try and better my life while inside, it was by no means a picnic, I was able to avoid being raped or forced into another gang, spending the majority of my free time bulking up on the weights. Being a meaner son of a bitch than the next guy was the only way to survive inside. I had been fortunate enough to make acquaintance with an older black guy who ran the library, when he was released he recommended that I be put into the position, I lucked out and found myself working there each day instead of laundry, kitchen or one of the workshops. I enrolled in college courses and by the end of my seven years I had earned a Bachelor's degree in business management, with my degree in hand I found myself back on produce row, reminiscing better days as I walked to my father's store. I stood in the doorway a convicted felon with five years of parole ahead of me and nothing to my name, I called to my mom, she spun quickly and made her way to me with a huge hug.

We all spoke perfect English, at home we spoke Korean as well as English, she called out to my father who was in the back. Seeing me he spoke loudly in Korean, "what are you doing here?"

At the age of twenty-nine I wondered the same thing; I was neither haughty nor sullen in my response. I didn't mind eating crow, I only hoped he would receive me as one who was humbled.

"Father I'm here to ask your forgiveness and a chance to prove myself within the business. I've completed my college degree in business management, will you trust me enough to work for you?"

He walked to me, circled around and stopped looking in my face, "Are you willing to do what I ask without arguing all the time? No matter what it is?"

As I nodded he stepped forward and hugged me, I now knew the meaning of the story I had learned in Sunday School about the return of the prodigal son, my parents could have rejected me, instead they embraced me. Above the stores were apartments, my folks lived in one and my late grandparents had lived in the other, they allowed me to move into what had been my grandparents place. Lying in bed that night I came to the realization that a return to the normality I had known as a young boy was attainable, but it would be a long and arduous road, a road leading to my eventual destination.

My bulk and strength were a huge asset for my folks, dad was looking frail for a fifty-eight-year-old man, then again five decades of long hours six days a week will do that. When my grandparents were alive the store opened at six thirty, when they died dad changed it to eight, I had become an early riser in prison and let my folks know I would be on the dock each day at five thirty to unload the delivery trucks, they didn't need to be burdened with that anymore.

Being up that early bringing product to the front I noticed there was tremendous volume of foot traffic taking place before eight, the joggers, the runners, the health nuts out for fresh air and a fast walk. In my mind they were people who might be interested in fresh produce or vegetables before the day got away from them. I brought the idea of opening earlier to my dad who stated matter of fact he didn't want to do it.

I thought what the heck, may as well try, "What if I take it upon myself to open early, get the displays out front and take care of any customers before you and mom come down at eight?"

Dad was hesitant, looking at mother asking for her input. In true mom fashion she responded, "If he wants to do it why does it matter? Let him."

I could tell dad was struggling with the idea and I thought I knew why so I spoke up.

"I'm not planning to go anywhere, I won't open early, get a bunch of people interested and then walk away leaving you with a mess to deal with. I plan to learn the business entirely from you and mom before you retire, and I take it over. This is what I'm going to do with my life, keep Jeong's open and profitable."

I put up signs and posters telling everyone who walked by that the store would soon be opening at six thirty Monday through Saturday. Monday morning, I was rolling tables onto the sidewalk in front of the store at six fifteen, before I had officially opened at six thirty, I'd had two sales, they weren't big, but they were sales. I took that first dollar bill and put it in a Ziploc to frame later. Business increased enough to make it worth opening earlier but hadn't reached what I thought was its potential when my father fell over dead of a massive heart attack. Thankfully it was me who found him lying in the walk-in cooler and not mom.

Mother was devastated, he'd been gone three months and she was still just going through the motions as if she had no reason to live. My older sister had met and married a Korean guy in college, after finishing his studies as a general practitioner they moved back to Korea where he worked in the ER. It was suggested that mom go visit her for a season, she would have time to know her grandchildren and reacquaint herself with relatives she'd only met a few times. After mother left, I hired a few different people, they would start out with a bang but within a few months the work and long hours would end with a fizzle. I still had one older Korean gentleman (Pak) coming in who had worked for my folks for years, he was semi-retired and generally only worked mornings.

With mom now gone and no one to count on for reliable help other than Pak, I made the decision to close the half of the store next door, the one my folks had purchased years ago. It had become a place where the Asian community could purchase items not readily available to grocery stores as well as a lot of staple goods. When the new Asian Market opened its doors a year and a half before dad died our Asian food sales dropped drastically, still mom wanted to hang on to it for old loyal customers. Once she was gone so were the old customers, when I closed off that side of the store, I don't think I had more than ten people say anything about it.

The early morning rush of folks getting fruit for lunches or vegetables for meals later had already come and gone for the day, which afforded me a short window to quickly wash down the sidewalk area before the late morning and afternoon customers began filtering in. I did so to not only clean the walkway but reduce the level of dust as well. I had watched the same bag lady emerge from the alley next to my store several times over the past two weeks, as she timidly looked out from the alley she paused, looking left and right, then gingerly making her way onto the sidewalk hugging the building with her body. Each day she became sadder looking, disheveled, unclean, worn and tattered clothes, a grimy looking backpack that likely contained all her earthly goods.

I knew most of the homeless in the area, when I had fruit or vegetables that were still good but had lost their luster and visual appeal, I would put them on shelves at the back of the building. The homeless would show up daily for whatever I'd put out, I had never seen her before, I figured she was new, people drifted in and out of the downtown section all the time. This day was different, she looked gaunt and unwell as she quietly made her way by, though I would nod and greet her she had to this point never responded.

I grabbed two apples and walked to catch up, when I was alongside her she gasped and froze in her tracks. Holding out the apples she looked terrified, I gestured for her to take them, she tentatively reached out taking one and quickly scooted between the buildings not looking back. I didn't see her for another day, she looked sickly and her face was sunken in when she did reappear, as she walked toward the store I was ready with a small bag containing two apples, two oranges and some grapes that were just beginning to wrinkle enough that no one was going to buy them.

Making eye contact with me for the first time I extended my hand forward holding the bag, gesturing for her to take it. With obvious fear she reached out and took the bag, this time nodding slightly as a gesture of thanks, as quickly as before she scampered away, after closing that night I made the rounds of the usual homeless hangouts but saw her nowhere. Three mornings later I watched as she emerged, bent slightly, staggering and barely holding herself up, as she tried walking by I took her arm and sat her in a chair just inside the door, she was so weak she didn't resist, I returned with a bottle of water which she drained instantly.

Though I was talking to her she wasn't answering, it seemed there were times she didn't even acknowledge that I'd said anything at all, squatting down so she had to look at my face I pointed to my ears and asked, can you hear? She shook her head no, it was then clear to me why she hadn't answered, she hadn't heard. I motioned for her to stay seated as I grabbed fresh fruit, again squatting in front of her I asked.

"Can you read lips?" She nodded but pointed to my notepad. She scribbled something and handed it back. The note stated, "I can read lips but do better writing on paper."

Over the next five minutes we conversed back and forth. She hadn't eaten for the past two days, the fruit I had given her was stolen as soon as she was off the main sidewalk and she'd been afraid to leave her hiding spot because two guys had tried to rape her. I let her know I had food in the back of the store, that I would take her in the back and feed her and she didn't need to be afraid. Fear flashed across her face, I could see panic rearing its ugly head, I quickly changed gears.

Using the notepad, I told her to stay where she was, I would bring her food. She nodded as I hurried to the makeshift kitchen at the back, we called it a break room, it was no more than some chairs, a table, a small hot plate and a microwave. I had leftover spaghetti in the fridge which I quickly warmed and brought out, to my surprise and thankfulness she hadn't left. I took care of customers or sat with her while she ate, I was concerned she would wolf it down and be sick, again she surprised me by eating slowly, making a gesture for more water.

When she finished, she thanked me in sign language repeatedly as she slowly made her way to the open door, I wrote that she was welcome to stop the following day if she'd like to. With a smile she nodded, the rest of the day was more busy than usual, with no one to help I was running the souls off my shoes and catching a bathroom break when I could. I would close Monday through Friday at six, and Saturday at three, once the front doors were shut the next phase of my workload would begin as I quickly went thru inventory on display determining which was still saleable and which wasn't. I had several banana's that were not going to sell unless someone wanted them for banana bread, I put those along with more wrinkled grapes and a few apples on the shelves behind the store. When I had put them out there was no one in sight, when I came out ten minutes later with some tomatoes and cabbage the shelves were bare.

In my apartment above the store picking at my salad I began examining my life, I was thirty six basically on my own, mom had fit in so well with my sister and family I wasn't sure she would return, if she did she certainly wouldn't be able to help the way I needed and Pak couldn't go on forever. The more I thought about the homeless lady the more I wondered if she might be willing to work, I made up my mind I was going to see how literate she was and if she had a good grasp of the basics I would offer her a job. Just having someone to sweep, restock, clean up and help watch the front would take a great deal of pressure off me.

She timidly exited the alley a bit earlier the next morning, well before I'd had a chance to wash down the sidewalk, motioning for her to come inside she did. She didn't look as disheveled as she had the day before, it was apparent she had tried to clean up a bit, but it was still obvious by her body odor, messy hair and worn out clothes that she was homeless. I asked on paper if she would like some breakfast, she nodded slightly, I motioned for her to sit at a small table just outside the break room, thinking if she felt she could leave she might be more comfortable.

Bringing her some scrambled eggs and toast I asked if she would like coffee or milk. She wrote coffee and began eagerly eating the food before her, not knowing if she wanted anything in it, I brought a cup of black, she motioned with a thumbs up it was just fine. Her jeans weren't filthy, but they weren't clean either, when I wrote asking if she would like to wash her hair or take a shower, she flinched shaking her head vigorously. Putting my hands up in a surrender gesture she calmed down, I had yet to see her smile, all I'd seen to that point was sadness.

The morning was slow which allowed me time to concentrate on her in between customers, each time I would wait on someone she would stand and watch from across the room. I learned through written notes that she was forty four, had gone deaf at seven and though she could say many words they sounded odd, she told me people made fun of her as a child and young woman therefore she used her voice very little. She had graduated from the deaf school in Abram and had worked in an office pool doing data entry where after nine years she met and married a loving man. He took particularly good care of her, they were just about to start a family when he enlisted as a Marine along with his best friend, never returning from Afghanistan leaving her devastated.

She told me that she held it together fairly well until her remaining parent died leaving her completely alone in a hearing world. Her husband's best friend returned and thought he would take over as her husband even though she didn't like him, he was abusive to the point she had a restraining order taken out on him. Telling me she was so full of hurt and sorrow she turned to the bottle, eventually losing her job, the house, her car and that she'd been on the streets for almost five years. When she was first on the streets, she could still sell her body for small amounts of money, but as homelessness took over, she became less and less attractive.

At one point she sat with her head bowed looking at the paper as though she was contemplating whether she should write something or not. She looked and spoke in that very high-pitched tone often seen in deaf people and her words were not articulated but I knew what she said when she looked at me and voiced.

"Don't hate me."

Then began to write furiously about how she could make money doing blow jobs for ten apiece but couldn't bring herself to put some guys dirty cock in her mouth, she had enjoyed oral sex with her husband but it was because she wanted to do it, not because she had to. She explained she could usually find food at the homeless kitchens and that there was a church on Walnut where three old nuns helped homeless women with pads and other feminine items when available. She thought she had begun menopause but without being able to afford a doctor's visit she wasn't sure. I was brought back to reality when I heard her stomach grumbling, taking stock of her situation I noticed mine was as well, it was already eleven forty-five, where had the morning gone.

In prison the guy I worked with in the library was deaf which prompted me to learn basic sign language, I asked as well as I could remember in sign if she used ASL (American Sign Language) to converse, she grinned and nodded, she laughed at some of my motions sliding the notepad in front of me when she wasn't sure. Asking in ASL if she would like to have lunch with me she hesitated then nodded, I tossed a frozen pizza in the oven and went about setting the table in the break room, she watched intently from the doorway without stepping inside the room.

With the pizza cooked, sliced and waiting with a bottle of water for her she very slowly made her way to the table, looking back at the open door every few steps, I stood and put a weight against the door so it couldn't shut, that seemed to ease her fear slightly. Via notes I asked where the rest of her belongings were, she wrote she had them hidden in some bushes by the railroad tracks where nobody liked to go because it was noisy, she only had two plastic garbage bags with a few clothes and a winter jacket. I made the decision to step out and take a risk, I wrote on the tablet I was going to speak so she could read my lips, I had too much to write and she should just answer yes or no if she had questions, she nodded and stared at my lips.