Egypt in rain: Hunts Point, Bronx
Egypt was cold, tired, and hungry. She stood disoriented in the rain, her hand clutched hard a few dimes she had begged.
“I kicked my husband out. Now I got to worry. He racked up all these debts with dealers. The niggers want to collect from me. I am cutting him off. He can’t buy on my name no more.”
We moved inside a deli to buy her a sandwich. She ate it in my car, shivering. “Only time he comes to me is when he is dope sick, for me to suck some dick, for me to cop him some drugs. I say to him, ‘Why don’t you suck dick? Why don’t you sell your ass? Hell, let men fuck you.’ I am sick of it. Sick of getting beat by him.”
“My mother died in 2002, Dec 23rd. Anniversary is soon. Heroin overdose. My dad? Don’t care. Hopes he rots in hell. Started raping me when I was three. Did my mom know? Not about him. She knew about my uncle and cousin. They did the same.”
I asked her, has a man in your life ever treated you right, ever not beat or raped you? She looked down at her sandwich, her face blank. “Yes. One has. God.”