Water in Face

I was walking back from a meeting the other day and had just reached the point where my street ended at a cross-street when I saw two people standing in front of a low white wall, having one of those conversations that take place without eye contact because both participants are too busy looking elsewhere. In the movies, these conversations occur on the decks of military ships (two sailors diligently scanning the horizon) or at fancy dress parties (a man and a woman working out the logistics of an affair with ventriloquist-stiff lips). In Saint Augustine, people have these conversations while waiting for their drug dealer.

The man and woman were both of the sun-bleached Florida-redneck-homeless variety. It was impossible to guess their ages. When the Florida homeless pass 30 and until they hit at least 70, they seemingly don't age at all. Some have more teeth than others; some have darker hair, some walk stiffly, some lope smoothly along like an animation of Early Man. But age does not seem to play a role in any of these factors; rather, it has more to do with how many nights they are able to find shelter, whether they have been able to avoid falls from pickup trucks, bottles smashing mouths, campfire brawls, angry pimps and crooked dealers.

The two homeless in front of me were of the well-preserved variety, roughly the same age (or so it seemed). He wore a pair of denim pants, frayed at the cuffs, and black high-top sneakers. A red baseball cap framed that woefully familiar expression of proud defiance which indicated that he, like most of his kind, based his entire self-concept on some vague ideal of one's ability to "survive" hardships (both self-imposed and those that are visited upon a man by the authorities).

The woman had hair from which all the pigment had been stripped by a combination of time and exposure to the blazing sun. Her face was unshaded, all downward angles and unexpected abutments of pudge. Her small eyes looked out from cupolas of leathery skin with a vaguely hopeful glint; a gray t-shirt lay on her rounded shoulders and two twig-like legs (covered in patchy bark which might've been eczema) poked out of her stained khaki shorts.

As I approached, the sun emerged from behind a long, thin cloud, setting the street corner on fire. Suddenly, the man turned and threw the contents of a Styrofoam cup straight into the woman's face. Water struck her and and blossomed in all directions, making a dark line on her t-shirt. The woman gasped and spluttered, raising her eyebrows and lowering her lips as she stumbled toward the man, her balance upset by the shock. He gave me an angry glance and then began walking away toward the St. Francis house. Presumably we were all to blame for his problems; me, his woman, and who knows how many others?

What surprised me: the woman's face never lost its meek expression, not even in the moments following her dousing, when she realized what he'd done. She wiped her eyes on the hem of her t-shirt, ascertained her man's bearings, and began to follow him at a respectful distance of three paces while he, with an occasional glance over his shoulder, muttered at her "leave him be" and to "go on back." She continued to follow, pleading with him in a soft, low voice, until they reached the porch of the St. Francis house and were lost in the shade.