by Caitlin Simmons
Sophie liked to go to Berkeley. She liked to “get out.” In between the college kids, drop-outs, store workers, hippies and crazies we popped in and out of stores, stared at things we couldn’t afford. We pierced things and she got tattoos, we conversed with the street people, and laughed about it later. One man with a body structure smaller than mine in a long fur-like coat appeared in front of me and grasped my had. “Are you a nurse?” he asked. His skin sagging away from his delicate jaw bone, covered in a thin layer of white stubble. “No.” I answered back. “You have very kind eyes.” His voice bent with the wind as he spoke and he drifted back into the crowd.
I didn’t believe in God; but if I did I was certain that he took the shape of a tiny old man and just told me what I should do with my life. I began a volunteer for a hospital and ran the desk for the ICU. There, I found nursing was not for me. Yet to still please my Berkeley God-send I starting going out with a nursing major that I met at community college. He asked me if I wanted to go smoke Hooka with him and his friends in the city. Hooka was something cool kids did. I said yes.
We went to the Tenderloin. We walked a couple blocks down the street, where crack heads and pregnant ladies milled about in the San Francisco dank night air. “Got any change, sister?” I heard from raspy voices. I said no. When we got inside I told my nursing major how sad it made me. He blew the apple flavored smoke into my face and laughed, “Why?! They do it to themselves!” I looked down, apologizing to that small stubbly prophet in my head, I did not want to be a nurse and I did not want to date my nursing major.
Driving back home, his friends were drunk and treated the Toyota like hot wheels. I was stuck in the back seat. My nursing major kept prodding my nerves to see if I was “ok.” I nodded. The kid driving slammed on the breaks. There were six cop cars collected outside a convenient store up ahead. My face slammed against the window and my lower teeth bit into my upper lip. It started to bleed. “Yo man! My girl’s lip is bleeding! Pull the fuck over!” My nursing major walked me inside the convenience store, washed my lip out in the sink with water and hydrogen peroxide. He held it with cotton balls till the pink blood clotted, turned brown and ceased. I stared at him, the genuine care and concern on his face. I knew I would miss that part.
His wide hand braced my neck and shoulder as I stopped to ask the cashier why there were still so many cops outside. “It’s the end of the month.” She smacked her gum, scanning the items we used and summing up the total, “People’s gotta eat.” The flat of my shoe smacked the pavement as I stepped down from the concrete steps; the chill gave me goosebumps. The friends were smoking blunts and we had to wait to get back in the car. I leaned against the door and watched the blacks pass by weary of the cops. One saw me observing. He looked my nursing major up and down, kept walking, and shouted at me, “Them pigs is hungry, Princess! Them pigs is hungry!”
My nursing major and I got home that night. I picked his roommate's cat up off his bed, hugged it, and placed in the next room. He hated cats. I slept with him for the last time and asked him not to bite