truth

She painted pictures of monsters, devils, evil
beings. She was the only person who could see the inherent
beauty in these hideous apparitions. She was a Sagittarius
(or possibly an Aquarius – I honestly can’t remember which
with any certainty). Behind her obese epidermal layer,
which had been drastically weathered by all the horrible
things she has seen and done, there was an innocence,
something so pure and honest and good, not even all the
atrocities she had experienced could beat this angelic
demure out of her. I don’t know her name, but I suppose
that hardly matters now. You see, my guardian angel doesn’t
guard me anymore. Two years ago I was walking through my
neighborhood past a housing project in a daze of insomnial
delirium – I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours. One of the
dealers on the corner of the block asked me if I wanted to
purchase a couple rocks (for all of you who don’t know,
crack comes in the form of small crystals and is often
reffered to as rocks). His nappy ponytail blew over his
shoulder as the wind behind him tousled it into the air.
Being an abstainer, I responded that I didn’t have any
money – this is usually the most effective way to convince
anyone whose primary motive is profit to leave you well
alone. Not so in this instance. “Why don’t we go to the ATM
machine?” he said in the lowered voice of someone who has
just had an insidious idea. Every tick of his body language
screamed that this man was afflicted with the frantic
aggression only a truly desperate person can possess. It
wasn’t any harder for me to see that he planned to mug me
than it was for me to see his ponytail as it was blown over
his shoulder a second time. “Sorry man, not today.” I
responded. His tone of voice became even more muted, even
more unsettling. “Are you disrespecting me?” he replied.
His question was rhetorical – it was not a question but a
statement. When a 6’5” gangbanger gets it in his head that
you are disrespecting him, it is rare that the situation
will turn out in your favor. I tried to explain to him that
I had meant no disrespect, that I was merely disinterested
by the prospect of procuring illicit substances, and that
if I ever desired them, he would be the first person to
whom I would come. However, this apparently did not appease
his ego, and he didn’t seem to believe me. I started to
edge away. It quickly became clear to me that this was not
the correct course of action to follow in this situation.
“Where you goin’ nigga?” barked the dealer. “Away,” I
thought but “Nowhere,” I replied. “Oh, you a smart one!” he
said. At that moment, another neighborhood dealer exited an
apartment building on the other side of the street that
doubled as a drug den, followed rather closely by a woman
with an extremely bewildered _expression. You didn’t have
to be streetwise to determine that she was either a
customer of the dealer or an employee of the sexual variant
– she looked so resigned that I couldn’t determine with any
certainty which was the case. The dealer who had accosted
me and was now planning to cause me physical harm, or
possibly to kill me, hailed the other dealer who had just
emerged into the fresh air, beckoning him over to confer
about what was to be done with me. His request was obliged.
They hung back about two yards – just far enough that there
was no way I could have absconded successfully. They talked
in lowered voices. Occasionally, one of them would glance
in my direction. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I’m sooooo dead.”
was all my mind could manage to produce. It was at this
point that the woman who had followed the second dealer out
of the drug den approached me. She asked if I was an
artist, and I replied that I wrote sometimes. She told me
that she knew I was an artist because she could see it in
my eyes. She told me about her paintings and dreams of Hell
in the rambling drawl of someone whose mind has been
rendered somewhat inoperable. She told me about fire and
brimstone (though apparently she didn’t know the correct
word for brimstone – she called it firey rocks), of Satan,
devils and other diabolical denizens of Hell. She told me
that though these creatures were frightening, they also
possessed an intrinsic beauty of which no one else was
aware. This talk of the inferno did not appease my jittery
nerves, which felt like they were being nibbled on by a
horde of sewer rats. I became so distraught that I was
about to attempt a mad dash away from the strange and
violent things which were being plotted and described on
that block, when suddenly the junky who had been speaking
to me turned and said, “Come with me.” I was far too beside
myself with confusion to deny her request, So I simply
followed her. Though the drug dealers looked angry, they
did not protest. As I walked away, I saw the drug dealer’s
pony tail blow over his shoulder again. I followed her for
three blocks, until we turned a corner. We stopped and she
told me that she had to go back to the two gangsters. I
didn’t question why – it was apparent that she was going to
buy drugs from them. Otherwise it is doubtful they would
have allowed me to escape unscathed. Though I knew there
was nothing I could do which would make her follow my
advice, I told her to take care. She walked a few burdened
paces and then turned to face be. “By the way, I’m your
guardian angel,” she said. I did not reply, for how can one
who has just experienced what I had possibly reply to that
statement? We both walked away from that corner, her back
to the dealers, and I to the relative safety of my bed. The
other day I saw my guardian angel again. The cherubic
_expression was gone – her eyes were glazed over with a
hideously vacant film. I didn’t say anything to her, and
she said nothing to me. She simply walked past. It is
doubtful that I will ever see her again.