Little Haiti
Little Haiti, Miami, FL |
Well, no. "'Cause I'm a missionary. I've worked in New Orleans, Sweden...I'm 35 years old," she said, flicking her shades down to show us her eyes, "so, you know, I've been around. I know how to look out for myself. You look scared and someone see you like that, if some crackhead come, he don't care. He'll come from behind and and hit you," she said, addressing Iain, "in the back of the leg like that, and take off with all your shit," she said, addressing me. "There are rapists around here. A woman even said to me: 'they gonna steal your pussy!' Raped a bunch of crack whores the other night."
In a conspiratorial whisper, with the back of her hand, nails painted black, concealing her mouth, she said: "You know how it is. N*****s just get out of jail, looking for pussy." Stunned beat of silence. We explained we'd just had a nice lunch, a block away at Leela's, and that I thought it was getting nicer around here...."It is, it is getting nicer, but you gotta be careful. Just, when you're here, just stand like that," she said, gesturing like she was using both hands to open an elevator. We consented, moved apart. Watched the woman in the blonde braids with the skinny, suntanned, tattooed arms with the child-like painting strung over a shoulder, wondering aloud what had just happened. Was it the orange Wayfarers or the metal frames? Whose glasses made us look so vulnerable to such a person?
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