Read Online Have You Found Her by Janice Erlbaum - Free Book Online
Authors: Janice Erlbaum
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“Hey! Bead Lady! What you doin’ here on a weekend? You got beads?”
“No, I just came to drop off some clothes and books—figured I’d stop up and say hello.”
I put the bags down on the table, and the girls dropped everything to run over and pick through them. “What’s this? This looks like it’d fit me. Miss, you got any books by Teri Woods?”
They were distracted, so I headed back to the hallway to check on Samantha—still pacing and muttering outside the closed door of the counselors’ office. She had her street accent on, I noticed. “I’ll kill the bitch, fuckin’ bitch.”
“Who’s that, now?” I inquired gently.
She shook her head. “Fuckin’ bitch all up in my face, sayin’ ‘What you gonna do about it?’ I’ll show you what I’ma do about it. Let her come out that office.”
I nodded, agreeing with her without even knowing the story. “I’m sorry she’s in your face,” I said. “You don’t need that.”
“Fuckin’ right I don’t. I’ll lay that bitch flat.” She stalked away, the girl with the cast on her hand from punching a wall.
I wandered over to Ellenette. “What happened?”
Nutshell: A discussion about vegetarianism got heated, people sucked their teeth at each other, one girl told Samantha to “shut up, you skinny white crow.” Sam told her to fuck off; the girl laughed in her face. “What are you going to do about it?”
And Samantha, who was detoxing her ass off after seven years of homelessness and addiction, after nineteen years of intermittent abuse, rose and said, “I’m going to beat your ass, bitch,” and stepped toward her with murderous intent.
And the girl ran into the counselors’ office. “Samantha’s going to kill me! Samantha’s going to kill me!”
“Damn right I’ma kill her,” said Sam, pacing, snarling, flexing her fists.
Rina the counselor came out of the office, her back to the closed door, and started telling Sam to calm down. She didn’t want to be discharged, right?
“I don’t give a shit, I
will
get discharged, fuck that, I’ma lay that bitch flat.”
Rina warned her, “You could get discharged just for threatening her. You can’t let her get to you, Sam. That’s what she wants.”
It was a little too late for that, I noted; the mystery girl had already gotten to Sam. But I didn’t want to contradict the staff; their job was impossible, Sisyphean. I hung back and watched Rina handle it, and offered noises of support in the background. At one point I said, “Look, this was a shitty day anyway. You’re stuck in this place for a month now, going through withdrawal, people in your face—it sucks. It sucks to be here, and this made it worse. I don’t blame you for wanting to get kicked out. Let’s go smoke a cigarette and talk about it.”
It was the closest Sam got to going outside since she was on restriction, standing downstairs under the scaffolding for a smoke. She insisted that she didn’t want to go, she wanted to stand there until the “bitch comes out the fuckin’ office, so I can beat her ass.” But then Jerome, the bald counselor with the glasses, came out of the office with his arms folded, and he had a look on his face that spelled trouble for Sam.
“You can leave the floor now, or you can leave the building for good,” he stated.
“Let’s go smoke,” I urged her.
She didn’t agree, but she stalked away, and I chased after her.
She had to wait while I ran across the street and bought a pack of Marlboros—definitely favoritism, definitely against the rules. I ran back, and we stood under the scaffold as she smoked and paced and talked.
First she ranted, spit flying from the corners of her mouth, her customary hunched-over walk exaggerated into a pimp stroll. She told me how hard-core she was, banging herself in the chest—“What do I care if I get discharged, I been sleeping on the street since I was twelve! They think I give a fuck? I been stabbed, shot, stabbed some more,
“No, I just came to drop off some clothes and books—figured I’d stop up and say hello.”
I put the bags down on the table, and the girls dropped everything to run over and pick through them. “What’s this? This looks like it’d fit me. Miss, you got any books by Teri Woods?”
They were distracted, so I headed back to the hallway to check on Samantha—still pacing and muttering outside the closed door of the counselors’ office. She had her street accent on, I noticed. “I’ll kill the bitch, fuckin’ bitch.”
“Who’s that, now?” I inquired gently.
She shook her head. “Fuckin’ bitch all up in my face, sayin’ ‘What you gonna do about it?’ I’ll show you what I’ma do about it. Let her come out that office.”
I nodded, agreeing with her without even knowing the story. “I’m sorry she’s in your face,” I said. “You don’t need that.”
“Fuckin’ right I don’t. I’ll lay that bitch flat.” She stalked away, the girl with the cast on her hand from punching a wall.
I wandered over to Ellenette. “What happened?”
Nutshell: A discussion about vegetarianism got heated, people sucked their teeth at each other, one girl told Samantha to “shut up, you skinny white crow.” Sam told her to fuck off; the girl laughed in her face. “What are you going to do about it?”
And Samantha, who was detoxing her ass off after seven years of homelessness and addiction, after nineteen years of intermittent abuse, rose and said, “I’m going to beat your ass, bitch,” and stepped toward her with murderous intent.
And the girl ran into the counselors’ office. “Samantha’s going to kill me! Samantha’s going to kill me!”
“Damn right I’ma kill her,” said Sam, pacing, snarling, flexing her fists.
Rina the counselor came out of the office, her back to the closed door, and started telling Sam to calm down. She didn’t want to be discharged, right?
“I don’t give a shit, I
will
get discharged, fuck that, I’ma lay that bitch flat.”
Rina warned her, “You could get discharged just for threatening her. You can’t let her get to you, Sam. That’s what she wants.”
It was a little too late for that, I noted; the mystery girl had already gotten to Sam. But I didn’t want to contradict the staff; their job was impossible, Sisyphean. I hung back and watched Rina handle it, and offered noises of support in the background. At one point I said, “Look, this was a shitty day anyway. You’re stuck in this place for a month now, going through withdrawal, people in your face—it sucks. It sucks to be here, and this made it worse. I don’t blame you for wanting to get kicked out. Let’s go smoke a cigarette and talk about it.”
It was the closest Sam got to going outside since she was on restriction, standing downstairs under the scaffolding for a smoke. She insisted that she didn’t want to go, she wanted to stand there until the “bitch comes out the fuckin’ office, so I can beat her ass.” But then Jerome, the bald counselor with the glasses, came out of the office with his arms folded, and he had a look on his face that spelled trouble for Sam.
“You can leave the floor now, or you can leave the building for good,” he stated.
“Let’s go smoke,” I urged her.
She didn’t agree, but she stalked away, and I chased after her.
She had to wait while I ran across the street and bought a pack of Marlboros—definitely favoritism, definitely against the rules. I ran back, and we stood under the scaffold as she smoked and paced and talked.
First she ranted, spit flying from the corners of her mouth, her customary hunched-over walk exaggerated into a pimp stroll. She told me how hard-core she was, banging herself in the chest—“What do I care if I get discharged, I been sleeping on the street since I was twelve! They think I give a fuck? I been stabbed, shot, stabbed some more,
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