What do you do when there’s nothing left? Make adjustments? Change your life? Give up? How do you know when nothing is left? Your soul aches? Bank account is empty? Bones and muscles ache? You come to the realization to stop? Stop what you’re doing. Ending madness? Perhaps.

She sits on a bench by a liquor store in Hell’s Kitchen. Around 52nd. Cars drive by. Men pass on her. She is skinny. Dirty. Clothes are ripped. A sexual refugee.

A cigarette dangles from her mouth. She was lucky enough to find one barely burned in the crack on the sidewalk. It has red lipstick on it. She places the long piece in her mouth and asks strangers, folks passing by for a light. People keep walking.

He stops at her feet. Bends down and gives her a light with a brass Zippo. The man sits down next to her.

I’ll do anything you want for some crack, she says. A joint. Beer. Anything, her feet rub together like a school girl. I just need something. I got nothing. Absolutely nothing, she tells him. Whatever you want.

The older man looks at her. He brushes the long, scraggly hair from her face. How about we talk, he says. I’ll buy you a bottle and we’ll talk. She nods her head.

They walk into the Asian owned business and look around in the coolers. An old, wrinkled woman watches them carefully. Immediately, she judges the two; the whore and the customer.

Pick what you want, he tells her. Go on. Pick. The young lady picks a forty ounce bottle of Colt 45.

I know the niggers drink it, but I like it too, she laughs.

That’s fine, he says. We are all God’s children. Let’s get out of here.

Two-fifty, the old lady demands in broken English. I say two-fifty. He pulls out a five and tells her to keep it.

Thank you, she tells him. Thank you. They sit under a tree growing from the sidewalk. A young tree with possibilities. Its leaves are green. Limbs thin. It begins to sprinkle, and the tree drinks the water in little by little.

Come on. Let’s get in my car. It’s dry, he laughs. She is not hesitant. How many cars has she climbed into? Countless. He opens the door for her.

OK. What do you want? A blow job? Fuck me? What?

Like I said. Let’s just talk.

About what?

You. Me. Seems people don’t talk much to the two of us. And, I’ll bet you have a lot to talk about.

Right.

I’ll start. I’ve been driving around America ever since my divorce. She was tired of my antics. She was tired of there never being enough money. She was mad that I wouldn’t take a second job. She was mad that I cheated on her.

Shame on you.

I know. There were a million different reasons. I can’t keep track. And then one day I woke up and there was a note. Said, I’m done. I want you out by this weekend. 

I see.

So, I took off. Got what money I had and started driving up and down I-95. Philadelphia,  Washington,  Baltimore, New York, all the way up to Maine, where I looked out at the ocean. And I realized I’m nothing. We’re all just nothing. People, waiting to become something. Like you. You’re waiting, aren’t you?

On what?

For life to begin.

She laughed.

Where are you from?

Nowhere. A small town in Iowa.

Yeah.

Wanted to be a Rockette. One of those fancy dancers you see at Christmas time, she told him. But, some things got in the way.

Like?

Look at me. Too short for one thing. Not enough class for the other. Those women are really something special. I’m not special.  I’m not. Just a crack whore. That’s all.

Have you thought of getting some help?

No. I haven’t.

How about Bellevue?

The crazy place?

Yeah. The crazy place, he laughed. They can help you.

Do what?

Start all over again.

She looked at him and finished off the bottle. She put her hand on the door handle. He leaned over and placed his hand on her other.

If you decide to ever go get help. Tell them at the emergency room that you are suicidal.They won’t turn you away.

Meg smiled and opened the door.