Yvonne

Yvonne the one-eyed whore; that's what she was known as. She had no problems with that designation. I had a bit of a crack problem although I managed to keep a regular job, which is rare. There's generally no balancing a crack habit and paying bills. I lived in one of the barrios of Corpus Christi. I was about as down and out as I've ever been. The crack cocaine lifestyle is not one I recommend but like any such subculture it has a tendency to give you a tribe of sorts. Yvonne was the matriarch of our tribe and I somewhat of the patriarch.

My sometimes girlfriend Mona brought Yvonne by my apartment, so they'd have a place to smoke the crack they'd been working for. They were both street walking prostitutes. My place was kind of "whore central" as they'd come by for a place to smoke the reward they'd been working for. Of course they'd share their bounty with me in exchange for a safe place to indulge. Yvonne and I connected instantly. The reason Yvonne had her moniker was that some John back in the day put his thumb almost completely through her left eye and so she no longer had an iris. Her left eye looked like Master Po from the television series, Kung Fu.

The neighborhood was ugly rough and crime ridden. Violence was frequent and our world dystopian. One of the girls that regularly came by my place to smoke me out was found dead in an abandoned house about a block away. We figured that she probably overdosed (she did heroin also), or maybe her body couldn't take it anymore.

Yvonne was the mother figure of the prostitutes in the region. She had to be in her mid-50s and she'd lived a very difficult life and often gave sage advice to the young whores. She'd been coming by my place to smoke for a while and one day she came over and told me, "I know you'd never fuck me because I'm too old and I'm a whore, but can I suck your dick? That would mean a lot to me." Well who the hell was I to say no to that, and that being her profession, she really had that skill down.

Another girl came up dead in the house on 6th Street. It was a house that the girls would go to when my place wasn't available (because I had to sleep for my job). Nerves got on edge but these are people that have almost no say so about their situation. The cops never investigated the possibility of a serial killer and it never made the news but we all considered that very real possibility.

We had our thing down. She'd come by, bring me crack, suck my dick, smoke some herself, and go back out, but never without the motherly advice that, "Mijo, you're too good for this life. I want you to make it out." I eventually went to rehab and got a good job and made it out. To this day I have people I care about in that neighborhood although the vast majority are dead at this point.

The last time I saw Yvonne, she was extremely proud of me, and I took her out to eat at a nice restaurant. (Are you sure you're not embarrassed about me? I could have never been. I care about who I care about, unapologetically). A couple of weeks later she was found in the house on 6th Street. That's life on the street. There is almost no redemption.