2003: The homeless woman stared up at Solace’s window. Her bony fingers lightly gripped the handles of her ancient shopping cart, which contained her entire life. Her eyes blazed with determination. She wore a tattered tee-shirt with the phrase “Isn’t It Ironic?” emblazoned in large, red letters. Surprisingly, her jeans and sneakers were in relatively good condition for she had finally relented and used what little money she had saved to purchase them at a thrift shop. Her hair, however, resembled a matted bird’s nest perched atop her head and she intermittently scratched at her scalp to ease the incessant itching. Her thin frame and diminutive stature nearly rendered her invisible—until she spoke. Her shrill, stentorian tones could be heard for blocks as she bellowed her dire predictions. No small wonder passersby allowed her a good deal of room.
The woman could no more explain why she felt compelled to follow the drama of the people she had been shadowing for the past weeks than a cat could write its name. She only knew that she had awakened one morning with intense, overwhelming feelings, which caused her to roam the streets of New York City in search of total strangers who needed her particular guidance. She had made herself known to the rose and now she would see what reception she received from the one who gave comfort.
“Hey, what are you doing?” a voice called, “Get outa here!”
She paid no attention and continued her vigil.
“Did you hear me? I said get outa here,” came the booming, insistent male voice.
The woman turned to see a tall, burly, bearded, man wearing glasses coming towards her. He wielded a newspaper and made as if to swat at her as if she were an insect. She rummaged in her shopping cart for the can of mace. Brandishing the weapon, she watched his approach. He stopped short, noticing the object in her hand.
“Hey! You can’t have that! It’s illegal. I’m gonna call the police.” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
“I only want comfort here. I don’t want trouble. I don’t want trouble,” she stammered, waving the can in front of his face.
“Well, there’s no comfort for you here. Go to a shelter or some place,” snarled the man as he held the phone to his ear.
“I have to give the rose comfort. That’s my job. I have to give the rose comfort. Comfort is here.” The woman shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, one hand on her can of mace, the other in a white-knuckle grip on her shopping cart.
“I told you. There’s no comfort here for you. Hello? Yes, I’d like to report a homeless person who needs to be escorted to a shelter. She’s being a nuisance.”
“Liar!” shouted the woman. She had simply been standing there. She knew her rights. She had a right to be wherever she wanted as long as she wasn’t harassing anyone. That is what her case worker had told her, and she made a concerted effort to adhere to that rule.
At that moment, Solace came hurtling down the steps, hair flying, white cane thrust out in front of her. She’d had to turn back three times because she had nearly left her apartment without her MYM identification card, her transportation card and, unbelievably, her dance shoes. She wore blue shorts, a white tank top and white sneakers, minus socks. Her dance bag was slung over her shoulders. She and Jessie had gone to their favorite cabaret, and she had slept late as a result of getting home at one o’clock in the morning. She was now in danger and dread of breaking one of Ardena’s most sacred rules.
She heard the booming voice of Adam Hunter, her neighbor. What was he going on about now? She hoped she could just slip passed him without becoming embroiled in another of his rants. As her feet hit the pavement, she noticed someone standing in her way.
“Excuse me,” she said, trying to move to one side. The stranger blocked her path. “Excuse me,” she repeated, annoyance and impatience coloring her tone.
“You are comfort. Your rose needs comfort,” came a firm, clear female voice.
“Don’t listen to her, Solace. She’s just a homeless woman. I was calling the police to have her taken to a shelter.” Adam piped up. He withdrew a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped his perspiring forehead. The humidity was stifling and oppressive, but he was too self-conscious about his excessive body hair to wear shorts. He noted, with appreciation, Solace’s lovely even tan and fit physique.
Solace barely heard Adam. Her mind fixed on the woman’s words. Did she know this woman? No, how could she? Adam had said she was a homeless person.
She turned to him. “Adam, calm down or you’re going to have a heart attack or a stroke in this heat.” She turned to face the woman. “I don’t think I know you, but you seem to know me—at least you seem to be trying to tell me something. But I really don’t have the time to figure out what it is. I’m late enough already.”
Had Adam not alerted her, Solace would not have known that the woman was homeless, for she could not see the disreputable state of her hair and clothes. She would simply have assumed that the woman was either on the way to or from a laundry facility.
“Adam, leave her alone. Was she bothering you or something?”
“No, but—“ Adam began lamely.
“She does have a right to walk the streets, you know.”
“She was staring up at your window, Solace. You never know what people are going to do these days. She could be psychotic. She should be in a place where she can get some help,” he said with conviction. Remembering his cell phone, he punched the END key and returned it to his pocket. It seemed the woman was making motions to leave.
“Adam, you’re a great block watchman, but I don’t think this woman is going to hurt me or anyone else. She just seems to have a message for me, which is really strange but--” Solace pressed her watch; she was going to have to run to the bus stop. She prayed she wouldn’t have to wait too long. She grimaced, imagining the looks of bewilderment she would receive as she jogged with her cane. “I have to go.” With that she trotted off down the block, leaving Adam to his righteous indignation. She could hear the creaky cart behind her. She felt her stomach give a little lurch. The woman was following her. Why? Hadn’t she relayed her message—something about comforting a rose?
Adam lumbered, panting profusely, behind the woman and Solace. He wanted to see where she was going. He had appointed himself Solace’s bodyguard—at least in the neighborhood, and he felt it was his duty to see that she was safe from vagrants and muggers, if he was able. He turned the corner in time to see Solace hopping on the bus and the woman standing there, muttering. He watched her make her way up the block and hoped it would be the last time they crossed paths.
