No thank you, he said. He barely looked at the old woman. He didn’t have to. His manner waved her away. His girlfriend smiled apologetically and the two kept on walking. Maggie lowered her basket and watched them go. She refused to beg, so she sold apples instead.
She pulled her headscarf straight, aligning the knot evenly beneath her chin. People don’t want to come near me, she said. They think I’m sick. They’re afraid of me because I’m old and ugly.
I’d been sitting nearby on the sidewalk, writing. I closed my notebook and got to my feet. It’s not like that Maggie, I told her. Don’t take it personally.
How am I supposed to take it? she said.
Like everyone else.
How’s that? You want I should start to beg? Get myself a little sign and fill it up with lies like the rest of you? So that people will feel sorry for me? She produced a small mirror from her pocket and opened it. She held it up and looked at herself, adjusting her hair beneath the headscarf.
You must think me vain, she said. A vain silly old bitch, too proud to beg. But you don’t know one thing about it. I’ve earned my vanity. I’ve earned my pride.
We’re all vain, I said. In little ways, everyone is.
Humph, she scowled, putting away the mirror. Her hands followed, thrust down into the pockets of her threadbare cardigan. You think you know all about it. You think you’re special because you go around with books and write things down. Well you don’t know jack, she said. She turned away from me, looking down the empty sidewalk. Sunlight glinted off the waxy red skins of the apples in the basket at her feet.
I don’t think I know everything, I said.
I used to be beautiful, she said. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? Never would’ve guessed, I bet. Not in a million years.
Her shoulders stiffened. I stared at the ground, considering what she’d said. I thought about her being beautiful and decided she was too old. She was seventy. Her youth was too distant to be imagined. I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed quiet. I held my notebook and studied the cracks in the sidewalk.
I used to be pretty, she said. Her back was still turned to me and her voice was faint but clear. I was a little girl and my mother used to clothe me in pink dresses. I wore ribbons in my hair. I had long gorgeous hair, beautiful red hair that covered my shoulders. My school teachers and all the other girl’s mothers were always complimenting me on it. I was considered a little princess. All the boys offered to carry my books and offered me their deserts during lunch.
She turned around and looked at me. Her arms were crossed and she was frowning. The apples glittered in the basket beside her feet. Then puberty hit, she said. I bled, of course. And my chest filled out. Then came the hair. A thatch of it developed between my legs, along the labia. Like most teenaged girls, I grew armpit hair and leg hair and learned to shave it. But it didn’t stop there. The hair continued its onslaught, appearing at the corners of my mouth. It crawled up my neck. It grew on my face. By the time I was sixteen, I could grow a beard thicker than most of the boys on the football team. I removed it of course. I shaved every morning. Then I started waxing. I bought kits at the pharmacy and the adhesive made my complexion bad. My face was always blotchy and red. I wasn’t pretty anymore. I told all of my friends I had eczema. Psoriasis. Sometimes I told people it was an allergic reaction to my pillow.
I didn’t go to college, she said.
She dropped her arms, searching her pockets. Goddamn it, she muttered. Hey, you got any cigarettes? I don’t know where I left mine. I had a whole pack just the other day. I must have misplaced them.
I don’t smoke, I told her.
Yeah? she glared at me.
Really. I’m sorry, I said. I don’t.
Whatever, she said.
Hey, she said. You want an apple?
Sure.
Cost a dollar.
I dug around in my pockets and found some change. I counted a dollar into her hand and she gave me an apple. I bit into it. It was dry and sour with the texture of wax.
So I didn’t go to college, she continued. I was too ashamed. My mother had stopped buying me pink dresses long before and I was considering killing myself.
It wasn’t like there was any shortage of razors in my bedroom, she sneered. I’m a coward though. I never tried. Instead I joined up with a traveling circus. They agreed to take me on as their bearded lady once I grew it out, so I helped them set up the tents and stuff for a time, and I stopped waxing. By the end of the season I had a beard as glorious as my hair.
You must think I’m full of shit? she said, narrowing her eyes.
I looked at her chin. It was clean, free of any suggestion of hair. I tossed the remainder of the apple at a trash can. Where’s your beard now? I asked.
Listen, I never accepted being a freak. I knew I could be beautiful someday. The circus act was a temporary measure. I bought fitness tapes. I started working out in my trailer every morning and in the evenings too, between shows. I had good body and I trained it hard. Sometimes I turned tricks. There were always men that were curious about me, and they were curious enough to pay for it. So I did that too. I worked hard and I made good money. I spent half of my life being a freak, so I enjoyed it. It wasn’t until later on that I started saving up for the procedure that I’d read about in magazines. Laser hair removal. Back then it was more expensive because it was new. Rich women did it for their cooch. It was the biggest thing since commercial contact lenses.
It took several treatments, she explained. But it worked. I wasn’t a freak anymore. I was beautiful all of the sudden, like a rose that had blossomed in secret. And you know what? she said, her lips curling back against her teeth. So what? I was socially retarded. I was almost forty and I’d never been on a real date. I had no practical skills, no experience. I couldn’t get a job. It was too late for college. I was beautiful at the expense of my vocation. It cost me everything.
And then I got old, she said.
Buy an apple, sir? she asked as a man passed by us on the sidewalk. He smiled and waved and kept walking. Two women were following close behind. They avoided eye contact. I heard one of them say, Yuck. Who eats those? Red Delicious Apples are gross.
Yeah, the other giggled. C’mon girl, get yourself some Fujis and we’ll talk.
I know right? Like, invest in some Honeycrisps or something good.
They turned the corner and I looked down at Maggie’s basket of apples. Delicious Red Apples are for poor people, I thought. Then I reached into my pocket, brought my hand out with a dollar, and bought another.
WHAT IS THIS?
IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: In 2022, I started work on an ambitious project entitled Children of God. It was intended to be a journal-like series of character profiles and recollections, as recorded by a homeless man (and burgeoning writer) living on the street.
Over time, these brief installments were to be revealed as parts of a larger connected plot. The subtle individual threads of an integral narrative, gradually weaving into a collective whole. It was to be a secret novel, if you will. One that would creep up on the reader, coming into focus over the course of its rambling workmanlike chapters.
The prose I employed is often simple and childlike. My narrator is no wordsmith or master storyteller. He is uneducated. His outlook is humble, literal, and honest. The writing reflects these factors and is best read as though softly spoken, rather than composed; read as dialog, I think that you will find that it flows fine.
The project was never completed and my vision for these short entries remains unrealized. I’ve decided to share them here on my Substack, one piece at a time. As many of you are aware, I am currently working on a travel-themed novel. I also have a new collection of stories waiting to be published. I share this with you in the meantime.
Thank you for reading.
Sincerely,
NAB