Little Red-haired Girl

Sunday, early afternoon on my way to the parking garage, approaching Jones & O'Farrell, where all the crackheads hang out, I see a woman sitting on the sidewalk, limp, slumped against a car. Her red hair looks familiar.

As I pass and turn around to confirm the familiarity, I am... shocked.

She is slumped against the car with her arms out, and in her right arm, the needle and syringe are still stuck in her flesh. Passed out or dead ? There are so many passed out on the streets, that you usually just walk around them, but this is a first -- the needle still hanging.

And she is the red-haired girl. In her mid-twenties, maybe, she appeared on the street a few months back, though time flies when something's on the periphery of consciousness, maybe it was last year she appeared, a kid, obviously now on the streets, consuming the chemicals that make life on the streets seem more enjoyable than having a roof over your head with someone who hassles you about your habit.

Just a week ago (or was it two?), I remember her tweaked out on the corner, pacing back and forth on an eight foot path of serious intent, stopping to flail her arms at nothing and everything, pulling at her hair as if it were gnawing on her brain, and the animated and pained expression of serious conversation with no one.

But Sunday, she was limp.

What can you do, I'm on my way to work in the hospital, to save other lives, and intervention in the life of a junkie is a thankless proposition ? So I call the police.

I continue to the garage, ride my motorcycle back around, 15 minutes later, no police cars. I walk up the street, and a man who looks like a pimp, but a little too nice, clean, and well groomed to be a pimp, is looking down as she begins to stir. As I pass by and head around the corner, another wizened woman who also hangs out on that corner with a glass pipe is approaching.

I round the corner and turn back. The older hardcore woman is walking towards me with the syringe in her hand -- I'm certain it's her syringe on loan. The young red-haired girl is now on her feet, dazedly walking towards the corner; not dead, and probably feeling much better about life on concrete with a cushion of pleasure coursing through your veins.

Tuesday, I'm walking back from downtown. The red-haired girl is standing on the corner, concentrating intently on strands of hair, as she slowly pulls them away from her face and examines every inch, enjoying the tug at her scalp. As I pass and observe, she looks up, smiles warmly and invitingly, in a way that lets you know her entire universe is yours for fifteen minutes or so, however long it takes you to feel a fragmentary sample of that part of the brain she needs cash to feed.