The guy who owned the donut shop was a wiry Filipino with a thing about trash. Every morning after the rush, after the regulars left for the day, the Filipino gathered up all the scattered trash, the coffee cups and sugar-crusted napkins, and dumped every- thing in the big garbage bin. He was very, very clean. He then proceeded to wipe down the tables, to sweep and mop the linoleum floor -- all while his small-eyed wife sat perched behind the counter, the cash drawer open, her plump little fingers counting up the morning's receipts.
"Oh, no!" the Filipino gasped, standing at the garbage bin, stuffing it full of trash. He was looking out the storefront window. "She's back," he said. "Dammit! Why she keep coming back?"
Back behind the counter, his wife continued to count the money. "Who's back?" she asked, disin- terested.
"The woman. There!"
The wife, squinting over the rim of her tiny round glasses, glanced out the storefont window, out a the parking lot. "That poor young woman," she tsk-tsk-tsked. Then she looked away indifferently and continued to count the money.
"She not poor," the Filipino whined. "She a bum! Look at her. She scare away the customer." He crammed a few more coffee cups down the mouth of the garbage bin. Then muttering obscen- ities, he stomped right out the door.
His wife did not look up.
Once outside the donut shop, the Filipino stomped past the nail salon, stomped past the pizza place, stomped past the laundromat -- all while glaring at the woman in the parking lot. The woman, minding her own business, was seated on the asphalt, her legs crossed Indian-style, her hands buried in her lap, hidden beneath an old ratty blanket.
Fuming, the Filipino stomped into the mini- mart.
"You see that woman?" he asked the Persian who stood behind the counter. The Persian was a bearded man with an open collar and several gold chains.
"Which woman?" he smiled.
"There! In the parking lot!"
The Persian leaned across the counter and peered out the window. "I don't see her."
"There!" The Filipino pointed. "Sitting by the sidewalk."
"Oh, yes," the Persian nodded. "Yes, yes."
"She wears no pants, I tell you! Look. You can see: She picks, picks, picks!"
"What can we do?" the Persian shrugged. "She has no home."
"We should call the police, we should do. They should take her away."
"To where? Jail? She breaks no law sitting there."
"She break no law, but she scare away the cus- tomer. She make me sick. She make me want to vomit. Let me have a pack of Camels."
Reaching up, the Persian snatched a pack of Camels from the rack.
The Filipino slapped a twenty on the counter.
"Maybe we should help her," the Persian shrugged, ringing up the sale.
"Impossible!" spat the Filipino. "We can't help her. Not you, not me. People like her -- only they can help themself. They must work! They must do something! Anything!"
"But she has no money," the Persian said, count- ing back the Filipino's change. "You have money. I have money. To her, we are princes. To her, we are kings. We must lend a helping hand. We must be good neighbors."
Squinting at the Persian, the Filipino asked: "What are you -- a communist?"
Just then, a tiny bell tinkled as the mini-mart door swung open. In walked the woman. She was young, maybe twenty, but she looked as old as forty- two: chopped brown hair, ice blue eyes, dirty splotchy skin. She wore an old wool sweater and nothing else. The two men stood there, goggle-eyed.
"Got a bathroom?" the woman asked.
Neither man responded.
"I gotta use the bathroom."
"I-I am sorry," said the Persian. "But I have no public restroom."
"How about you?: the woman asked the Filipino.
"Oh, no!" He wagged his hand. "You no come near my shop. Not dressed like that. Not my shop."
The woman, asking nothing more, looked at the two men blankly, her eyes like heavy stones. A moment later, her eyes fell shut and a stream of liquid fell from a spot high between her legs. The floor splattered between her feet.
Stunned, the two men stood there staring, wide-eyed, agog. The woman, once relieved, nodded her head as if to say thanks, then calmly walked out of the mini-mart, the door shutting behind her, the tiny bell tinkling.
"Did you? Did you--?" The Persian started to say.
"She pissed all over your floor!"
"Tell me no! Please tell me no."
"You see! She's a beast. She's a monster."
The Persian stepped around the counter. There on the floor, the puddle of liquid glistened like clear molten gold -- its stench fetid and rank.
"Well, back to work!" the Filipino said, heading for the door.
The Persian grabbed his sleeve.
"Wait! Don't go. Help me clean this up."
"Help you?" the Filipino laughed. "You want so bad to be a good neighbor? There! That's your re- ward. You clean it up." Then, skipping over the puddle, the Filipino jerked the door open and danced out of the mini-mart. He was happy. He was right. That woman was a menace.
The Persian, cursing himself in Farsi, went to fetch a mop.
The guy who owned the donut shop was a wiry Filipino with a thing about trash. Every morning after the rush, after the regulars left for the day, the Filipino gathered up all the scattered trash, the coffee cups and sugar-crusted napkins, and dumped every- thing in the big garbage bin. He was very, very clean. He then proceeded to wipe down the tables, to sweep and mop the linoleum floor -- all while his small-eyed wife sat perched behind the counter, the cash drawer open, her plump little fingers counting up the morning's receipts.