When he drove off, she started walking back to the trucks.
She was bloody, and her clothes were torn. A passer-by picked her up. He wanted to take her to the emergency room or call the police. Just take me back up to the avenue. But dates mean dope. Three weeks after the. Most working girls deal with the threat of imprisonment the way clock punchers put up with an annoying co-worker or a long commute.
Last November, she was one of the women arrested. After she got in a fight with her husband, Ray an out-of-work ex-con who relies on Darlene to keep them in food and cigarettes , she hit the street to get crack money — and violated her rule about tricking with strangers. The undercover cop was a fine-looking man with gold on every finger. Around his neck was a thick gold chain with a gold dollar-sign medallion.
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Sitting on the curb with the plastic handcuffs on tight, Darlene heard one of the girls talking. Sometimes jail is a vacation — three hots and a cot. More often, women are arrested for disorderly conduct, trespassing, possession of a crack pipe or jaywalking, which are city-ordinance violations and equivalent to traffic tickets. With only beds in the municipal lockup — and police prioritizing violent crimes — women who do spend the night in jail are usually back on the street and doing their thing the next morning.
The cops can stop and question women who seem suspicious to them, but in the absence of tools like SOAP and SODA, law enforcement amounts to chasing women from street to street. But the girls know how that works, too. When Darlene got caught, the Jackson County judge looked at her good record of making court dates, then took a 3-inch stack of offenses and reduced it to two charges.
She pleaded guilty to solicitation for immoral purposes and possession of narcotic equipment and got two years of unsupervised probation — she was to do no drugs, no hooking. She was back on the street the next day. The same thing happened in , when she was arrested for charges involving prostitution and drugs.
In , Darlene missed a court date and got 33 days in the Municipal Correctional Institution. She detoxed, started treatment for her crack addiction, went to Narcotics Anonymous meetings and started counting sober time. She stayed clean for nine months. It was her first extended sobriety since she had been a teenager, but like addicts say, the streets are always only one hit away. Darlene took the hit. You get the rush, the adrenaline rush that you want. For 15 years, Darlene has chased that rush into Northeast hideaways that most people would rather not see.
Darlene steps around a decapitated snake on the wooden bridge at the Kessler Park pond. She used to bring her dates all up and down Cliff Drive. She lingers for a second before heading toward the pond. She walks around the sidewalks that slant into the water. Walking west on Cliff Drive, Darlene pauses at a sweeping curve with a wide shoulder. Darlene steps down and climbs over a log. I never carried nothing on me. She stops at the stone wall. One summer night, seven years ago, a dishwater-blond man with brown facial hair beat Darlene into submission, pinned her arms behind her, tied them to the tree and raped her standing.
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When he finished, she slumped down with her back against the tree. Then he lit it.
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It had rained a few days earlier, and the leaves were still damp. A few caught on fire, the ones that were on top. I felt a piece of glass behind me, so I started sawing.
You can still see the dark spot it left. She pulls at the Echo and looks at the steep, trashy slope. The two of them and a friend hopped in a truck to look for the man. They spotted him and gave chase, but he disappeared into a thick stand of trees behind the Salvation Army at Ninth and Bellefontaine. A few months after the attack, she saw him at a Truman Road bus stop.
The hair on her arms stood up. They both boarded the bus, and he sat a few seats behind her. She moved forward a row. Then she heard a low voice in her ear. Darlene got off at the next stop. She figures the man with the dishwater-blond hair is still around. When she finishes telling this story, she lapses into a long silence. It lets in the sound of distant trains.
Thinking about her family, and about being alone and vulnerable and full of regret, overpowers her toughness.
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A line forms at the service window where workers distribute meals every weekday. She and a few other girls stay with a friend. This is where vigilant neighbors call whenever they see her heading toward the Salvation Army building, and SOAP and SODA would ensure that they only needed to call once to get Darlene jailed and off the street. Wearing dark sunglasses and a black tank top with her sports bra visible underneath, Darlene brushes in around noon and waves to her friends as she gets in line. Then she heads to her usual back-corner table, carrying a partitioned tray piled with chips, meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, green beans and canned fruit.
Many weekdays, this tray of food is all she eats. A little kid walks up. He gives her a hug. How you gonna be my man if you go home? Darlene signed over parental rights for her own girl and three boys to their adoptive mother years ago. She only gets to see her kids once a year now. Her temper sometimes flares, too, such as when she and another woman almost get into it over a skirt that Darlene thinks is too short.
Girls who are too obvious make it harder for everyone, she says.
As she eats, people show their respect by bringing over trays of unfinished food and placing them in front of her.