the Ohio

I was on my way, driving home from work, when I stopped at a stoplight. At the corner, a woman wearing black chenile gloves with a fuzzy green fringe motioned to me to roll down my window. She was small and round. Her skin was creased and creviced. Her hair was dyed blond. Her lips red. Her clothes black.

She hobbled toward the car, "Can I get a ride?"

She told me she was going to the Ohio. Her breath was sour and smelling. I told her to get in. She told me it was cold, while she rubbed her gloved hands together. I racked my brain to remember where the Ohio was. The Ohio bar. I couldn't remember. The woman pointed the way. She said, "toward Willy st." She pointed toward the capitol.

As we drove, she shared her gratitude. I asked her name. She said something. I told her mine and shook her hand. As we drove, she introduced herself two more times, by the third time, I said, "I got it," but moments later I realized I had forgotten what she had said.

She needed to get out of this place. She needed a cigarette. She needed to pick up a man. She was from California. She started to cough. It began in her throat and worked its way down to her pelvis until she was thrown forward in a fit. She knew she could find a man to buy her drinks and cigarettes. She told me, "It's my turn."

She told me she had been beaten by her man. She told me her mother had died.
She could not tell me where to find the Ohio. I drove to my house for a phone book.

She really loved her man. She was alone in the world. She had no family. She had no money. She had no job. She knew she could find a man at the Ohio. It was her turn.

We drove around some more. She started to cry. She told me I had driven too far. I turned around and stopped. I checked again in the phone book for the Ohio.

She needed some make-up, "Let me cover up these tears." She talked some more and pressed powder over her cheeks. She pressed and pressed until she had created a white mask over her nose and halfway down her cheeks. From the edges slipped the pink crevices of her skin. I reached up, "Let's smooth that out a bit." For a moment, she lets me caress her cheek, the soft stroke of my thumb smoothing the edge of her make-up mask - but then the abrupt jump for her lipstick. She asks if I liked the color. I told her, "You are beautiful."

She told me she only had a dollar in her wallet. She told me she had been born in Ohio. She told me if I came in the bar, she would show me where she had been beaten. She told me, "It's my turn." I gave her the last four dollars in my wallet. I told her I would take her home. She told me her address. She assured me she had a bus ticket. She asked me to bring her to the Ohio. I drove on.

Before she left the car, she told me, "You are from god." I told her, "Take care." She flinched and gathered her things. "Its my turn," she told me one more time. She seemed to be floating, as she rolled out of my car. She pushed the door closed and stopped for a moment to center herself. Both green fringed, black chenile gloves raised up in front of her heart. She signaled peace and proceeded.

I pulled away, my fingers gripping the wheel. My hand on her cheek was a very blunt object compared to the complexity of the creases in her skin.

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