Skip to main contentShe's on the verge of tears as she asks if I can get her to 122nd and Glisan for under $15. I say that if I can't, I'll stop the meter. She tells me her teenage kids stole money from her and are now off doing god knows what, again, and she needs to go looking for them.
As we get close, she asks me to drive slowly, while she carefully scans a parking lot. Then we go up to a disreputable apartment together; she's almost absurdly grateful for me and my Maglite. Her kids aren't there, but an obviously stoned girl tells of a party at a dealer's house at 96th and Holgate. We're well over $15 now, but I want to know what happens next. So we head for 96th and Holgate.
She tells me about her kids stealing her pain medication, which she requires every day. I sympathize with that one; we trade pain-management stories. No luck at the dealer party, either. It's more than $50 on the meter, for nothing. She is crying for real now, about how her kids run roughshod over her, how her daughter tells her she's a fucking bitch. She clutches the cross around her neck.
I take her home, and remind her that I did say I'd stop the meter. She tells me that Jesus will take care of me for this, and pays half, which is OK by me. Small price to pay for divine protection—I need it in this job.
WWeek 2015