Two homeless people on Duval

"Say a prayer for me, in a world of human wreckage…"
-Sponge, "loaded"


They congregate at different street corners, on sidewalks, in alleys, at the beach, in boxes. They have no where else to go.

1. The man stood at the corner of Duval and Angela, with his long gray beard and his military-issue clothes and his back-pack and some kind of conic yarn hat on his head, eating from a can, never speaking. Every once in a while, he would do a goose-step type march in place to stretch out his legs, but usually one could find him there, standing and watching. At night, he would sleep on the bench where the trolleys loaded, just off the street from the corner and in the light for protection from the drunks who might get their kicks by fucking with him. He would sleep on his back with his arms folded, looking quite dead. And, for the most part, the drunks, along with everyone else, left him alone.

Some of the shopkeepers would give him food and canned goods. He was never bothersome, and even the police kept an eye out for him. He would disappear for a couple of days, sometimes appearing on the other side of the island, maybe eating from a can, then later re-appearing on his corner picking up where he’d left off.

Rumor had it he’d jumped from a Russian freighter and somehow ended up in Key West, not knowing the language, not knowing anyone. He must have left people behind, a wife, family, or friends. It was hard to look him in the eyes. He would meet curious, sympathetic, or taunting gazes with the same defiant glare.

2. For awhile, the Bearded Lady was a fixture on Duval Street, also. About 5’5" in red spike heels, maybe 90 pounds, sandy blond hair, and always in the same red dress. She reminded me of one of my junior high school teachers, which amused me, but bothered me more. Her behavior seemed to point to schizophrenia. She walked a fine line at all times. She had some serious, threatening, irrational impulses. She moved continually, walking alone through crowds of people, muttering and grimacing.

She would sometimes stop oncoming people and shouting incoherently and aggressively at them, and then move on. She always skipped me, though, as someone to attack. One time, she accosted everyone that passed, but left me alone, even looking away as we crossed. I never understood why she spared me, but I was thankful, nonetheless.

I saw her for the first time on the 800 block of Duval, in front of a restaurant claiming to be "The Best in Key West" (Along with every other damn business on the island…), but never had any patrons, nor did I meet anyone who’d actually eaten there. I had just smoked a joint and was heading into Bahama Village to pick up some friends for a game of pool. Looking down stoned at the sidewalk, I almost ran into her. She was facing the restaurant, furiously turning the pages of a Gideon Bible from right to left, looking for something.

She became aware of my presence. She whipped her head around, staring at me with a look of pure madness. I had interrupted something very, very heavy. So, after that length of a pause, I kept going, trying to remain calm, not wanting to spook her any more. It must have worked, as she resumed turning. The sounds of rustling pages were heard until I rounded the corner. Her search was incomplete; the key passage still not found.

She would show up on the Gulf side of town, wandering around, babbling and screaming, accosting and fighting, and getting thrown out of shops. She went after one cashier with a knife. Some acquaintances dubbed her the "Bearded Lady" ("Freaky as a Bearded Lady!"), and the name stuck. She was all over the place, for a while anyway. Her freaky, menacing behavior standing out as strange, even by Key West’s standards. Then she was gone.

I’d imagine she’s dead. Too many negatives on South Florida’s streets for a disoriented schizophrenic to overcome. Too much mean and evil. Maybe not, though. Maybe she’s out there, in a horrifying universe, using the wrong parts of her brain to survive, tortured by the multitudes of demons she encounters daily. Or maybe she got help and is better. I don’t know.

Maybe before… She was someone’s friend. She was a success. She was married. She was happily single. Red has always been her favorite color.

Before she lost… Maybe she could feel it coming. "Something is wrong with the way that I’m thinking" is something she might have thought, before. Now "before" is maybe not even a memory anymore. Her family has accepted the loss and moved on. Or maybe, they long for her return. Her mother still looks at her picture every single day.

She walked quickly, out of step with the others, looking back periodically to make sure "they" weren’t following. Her red heels clicked rhythmically on the hot pavement. The vibration of agitation and confusion trailed in her wake. I watched her pass, her head bouncing along, the sound of her clicking heels, her physical body eventually dissolving among the other bodies passing on Duval, and thought of the inevitability of her demise.