Jacksonville For Christmas

Today is Thursday, and not Friday, which is good, given the fact that I am getting another horrendously late start on the day, and would hate to be frittering away Friday tips. Rain is threatening. We are officially broke.

I found a dime in the sleeping bag, sparing me from abject poverty.

Last night, I made 2 bucks, again. I am appreciative for anything that I get and wish that there were more people like those 2, who tipped.

I returned to camp with $3.16.

Karrie hadn't made anything. Her willingness to ride all the way to CVS for a 4 pack of beer touched me, and I gave her all of my money. A 4 pack is $3.17, so, I told her that she would have to panhandle the missing penny.

I am at the point where I sit here at the library, instead of going to my spot, out of dread of not making anything. This is the same reason that I don't check my foodcard balance, because of the hopeful ignorant bliss which comes from not knowing for sure just how low it is.

This is a low point. Jacksonville for Christmas seems to be the wise choice. At least that city is not swamped with musicians, making us a kind of novelty; something that people don't see every day, nor, every 5 minutes of every day.

Karrie was up at the crack of dawn, as usual. She went to get hot water and firewood, as usual. She washed clothes and dishes and drank the last of the beer, ditto. Then, we finally left camp and went to the market, where she panhandled enough for another 4 pack.
The Morning Babble
I sat with her in a patch of woods and listened to her recount stories from her past. This time it was the one about her wanting to sue her mother, because her mother is living in a trailor at the top of a mountain in Tennesse, which Karrie rightfully owns, (the trailor, not the mountain) but is afraid to go back to because "They beat me, and make me sleep outside, under the trailor." They are taking and cashing the checks earmarked for her, due to her disability (being burned as an infant, having bones broken during a series of attacks, and sustaining a head injury in one of the car accidents which she was involved in; not the one where her chest was crushed, when she escaped death only because a doctor was on the scene; but another one. I've lost track of the tragedies...)
She apparently gets a check every month, which is commondered by her family, whom has gotten some kind of Power of Attorney and are supposed to be applying the money towards her welfare. But, that's not the way thing's work in Tennessee, I guess.

The Morning Stare
Then she started staring at me.
Like a charmed snake, she will stare at me, as if mesmerized. This only happens after about 6 beers. Her gaze will drift, but will always snap back to me. People really do have a sense of being stared at, and it is not always comfortable. One wants to shout "What!?! Why are you staring at me?" This is just her way of expressing adoration for the second most important thing in her life, behind alcohol, and I just try to cope.

Now, I have procrastinated long enough. If I am going to go and have a miserable day and only make 2 bucks, I might as well get to it.