A little boy cries somewhere. His wails are muffled by apartment walls and obscured by the sounds of cars and sirens and general L.A. hubbub. But the sounds of little boys crying are especially designed to be heard at a great distance, and so, even in a damp dumpster with the summer stench of molding oranges, Marie can hear the sobs.
Her flashlight is dim. A peach and an orange are the same until she feels the smooth bumps of the orange. This dumpster has been picked through already for the good stuff. The expired milk and barely moldy bread is gone. There are no eggs. There is no cheese. But there is moldy fruit, and dumpster diving is safe.
Weenis went to the shelter a week ago. So did Becky. Marie had found a couch to crash on that day. Met a Carol in the library. She wanted to know the city. Marie made the night last until the only sensible thing was to crash on the same couch Carol was crashing on. Not a well she could go back to, but there was oatmeal in the morning, and the couch was better than a cot. Marie felt like a regular ol' young person for a night.
Weenis went to the shelter a week ago. So did Becky. Maybe they'd found a good thing and were enjoying themselves somewhere. But good things don't happen. Not for a whole week. Marie bit into the orange without peeling it. Moldy. Gross. And the skin was bitter. But full of vitamin C, she told herself. And... ugh. Someone had thrown away garlic, she guessed. Garlic orange was not delicious.
The crying of the little boy, the hubbub of the city, and the rumbling of her own belly was the music that accompanied her meal. She ate the orange. Then she ate a moldy peach. She ate a tomato and some cilantro. Everything reeked of garlic. "Garlic is a superfood," she told herself, as she forced herself to enjoy it all.
Marie climbed out of the dumpster. Something moldy in there hadn't agreed with her. Maybe all the moldy things were battling for the dominance of which mold would reign supreme. Marie leaned against the wall of a bakery and breathed in all the good smells of fresh, fresh baking dough. She closed her eyes and imagined the smells were solid. A stream of milky white spongy breads traipsed into her mouth. The lights from the halogen lamp that lit the street illuminated each loaf as it tumbled out the door and into her waiting mouth.
That lamplight went out and Marie opened her eyes. Her belly hurt, and there was no traipsing loaf to chew. Instead, a tall shadow leaned towards her. "Oof, you don't look so good," said the shadow with the gentle lilt of a mother's concern. "Let me take you to The Shelter."
"No!" Marie belched. It didn't sound like "no", though, as the contents of her belly came up with the word. Gooey, colorful vomit splashed on the lady's black overcoat. Marie barely had time to wonder why anyone would wear a coat on a hot summer night in Los Angeles, when the woman picked her up like she was as light as a bag of groceries. Lying cradled in the woman's arms, still in desperate pain, Marie fell asleep, cozy and comforted despite everything.
