The Homeless Woman and the Chickadee Bitches

Grocery day has turned into a smooth-operating routine for me and my wife. I drive and stay in the car with my littlest charmer—she always falls asleep in her car seat on the way—while the original charmer does the shopping. This gives me a quiet moment to catch up on some reading so I never leave home without a book in tow.

We usually go to the next town over to the super mart where poor folks can still get a deal or two on food. Most of the time, Ava sleeps soundly because I've learned to park far away from the hustle and bustle where people are slamming car doors and carts into the return racks, they’re locking their vehicles with that annoying remote chirp, or they’ve left behind a dog to yippity-yap the entire time they’re in the store. Any of which wakes my baby up, then she doesn't get the rest she needs and I don't get to my latest read.

On a recent trip, I tucked us away at the quiet end of a row in the corner of the lot, facing the store so that I can watch for my wife when she’s done shopping. It’s an unseasonably beautiful day for March, and I have my window open to enjoy some fresh air. As I’m licking a finger and turning the page, I see a woman approach my lone outpost. She is pushing a grocery cart overflowing with what appears to be bottles and an assortment of oddities. She is the picture of a homeless woman: rumpled layers of raggedy clothes, no shoes but her feet were wrapped with some gauzy cloth, and scraggly drab hair frizzing out from under a frumpy garden-style hat. She’s hefty and weathered and reminds me a bit of Anne Ramsey/Momma from the movie Throw Momma from the Train but with less teeth.

She stops by my open window.

"Can you spare a couple of bucks?" she says brusquely.

"Sorry, I don't have any cash on me."

She looks at my car and I can sense she believes me. I'm scrunched up in a 1990 Honda Civic hatchback.

"Change?"

"Yeah, sure." I reach into the cup holder that’s overflowing with quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies—I had been meaning to clean it out for months anyhow. She takes a handful that I offer and pours it into the right front pocket of her coat. She seems to soften a bit and says thanks.

She takes a hand off her cart and places it on the car window frame, peering in. "Good book?"

I turn the cover her way. She reads, "Post Office. You're reading about the post office?" Her curled up lip makes me grin.

"It's a funny book so far."

"Why you reading here?"

I point to the back seat with my thumb. "My baby girl is getting some rest. My wife’s inside shopping."

She softens more. "Oh, I didn't see her back there. What a sweetheart. What’s her name?"

"Ava."

"Oh, like the actress?"

"Yep."

"Why I haven't thought of her in years. I liked her in Casablanca."

There’s a quick pause while I decide if I should correct her film mistake. I decide not to, and she goes back to the book. "Geez, the post office. What folks read these days. Enjoy your book," she says with a tone of sarcasm.

And with that, she wheels her cart around and begins making her way to the next row over when she’s almost struck by a car with two teenage girls racing for an open space close to the store. I’ve seen close calls in my life but this near-miss is by a nose hair, and I’m sure if it wasn’t for the surprisingly flash reflexes of the homeless woman, these girls would have run her down. In a typical it’s-not-my-fault response, the girl's lay on the horn while a stream of expletives is unleashed by Homeless Woman.

The girls park and jump out of daddy's car with their perfect hair and tan bods. As they wiggle their way into the store, they look back over their shoulders and flip the bird at Homeless Woman. I'm betting these two have never considered they could be in the same shoes, or cloth, one fine day, but I suppose they're still a couple divorces and several kids from that possibility.

I step out of my car and ask, "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Those little chickadee bitches almost killed me."

"Yeah, I saw that."

"Wouldn't they be surprised if I was waiting for them by their car when they came out. They wouldn't expect that, now would they?"

"I bet not, but I’m sure you don't want any trouble either."

A grin now crosses her face, "Maybe I do." And she turns and leaves.

I see my wife pushing a full cart my way, and I go open the back hatch to load the groceries. I point out my new parking lot friend who’s now in the pedestrian walkway directly across from where the little chickadee bitches parked—she's waiting for them—and as we pull away, I begin telling my wife the story. Two weeks later as I think back on it, I hope that Homeless Woman gave them hell.