. . .

Captain of inflatable toys

I feel so juvenile.

I drew some climbing ivy on my palm. It twines itself up two of my fingers. I'm hoping someone will notice it and comment, and maybe I can sell them a piece, or draw on their cheek, or something. So far, though, no one has. They're all too busy avoiding my eyes to look at my hand.

I hate being out of work. I hate not having money for food. I hate living on the street. A guy gave me a dollar the other day. I offered to draw something for him, but he said, no, thanks. I feel pathetic. I hate taking charity from strangers.

I've got a piece of chalk, now. And a green felt-tipped pen for my skin. I'm bringing the ivy farther and farther up my arm. Someone will notice eventually. Meantime, I can make sidewalk scenes. Not very complex, since I only have a pale blue, but it's something.

I'm good. I am good. People once thought so. When I lived at home, it was assumed I was going to do art school, but the money ran out. And I can't get a job waitressing now. I can't dress up for interviews. I don't have clothes because I don't have money. I don't have money because I don't have clothes. I've got chalk. And a green felt-tipped pen.

I want to work. I'm fifteen, and on the streets, but I'm not a drug addict or a whore. I'm tough. I've gotta be tough. I've got a knife. A sharpened piece of metal. It'll have to do. I've got my knife, and the chalk, and the green felt-tipped pen.

My parents are gone, now. My father didn't last out here. He stabbed himself in the eye with a piece of metal, which is where I got the idea. Mom got hooked on smack, broke into some guy's house, and he shot her. Didn't even get jail time. So I've been surviving here by myself.

The ivy is longer now. It's all the way up and down my arm and disappears under my shirt. That Guy on the street corner noticed. The one who raves at the people going by. He told me it looks nice. Since he also tells people that they're Elvis, I'm not sure if it's a compliment. I'm going to start on the other arm.

I've eaten things from the garbage, and mushrooms that I found somewhere that someone I knew thought were edible, and rats. She was wrong about the mushrooms. I'm glad they weren't poisonous. The ivy is up to my left elbow.

I do know people. Street people, I mean. I'm one of them, I guess, but it still feels strange, even after all this time. I remember the place we used to have. I can go visit it if I really want to, but it's had new people for long enough for them to be old people. But one of them gave me a black marker. One of the street people, I mean, not one of the people who live in my old apartment. Since I'm done with both arms, now I can start putting highlights on. I thanked him. He asked me what I was going to do once I had put highlights on. I don't know.

The store on the corner has a mirror in the window. I've been using it to draw on my face.

My green pen has gone dry. I've gotten down my breasts and halfway down my stomach. People have been calling me Ivy for months now. Ivy. I like it. I've been making a bit of money just sitting on corners with a hat, so I can get myself a new pen. A new set of pens, even.

I've been thinking. I'm done with my right leg, and I'm down to my left knee. But I've been thinking what I'm going to do. It used to be something to do, something to while away the time. Now it's become my identity. I sit on the corner and draw on myself and on other people. I'm making money. I'm something of a local fixture. But what happens when I'm done? What do I do?

I finally finished. I'm a mass of ivy from head to toe. I look beautiful.

I think I'm going dancing.