… Not as I Do

Late on the morning of October 30th, 2024—my birthday, though I rarely tell anyone anymore—I turn right from Spring Garden onto Tate, then drive north slowly down the street. The University of North Carolina, Greensboro, lies immediately behind the buildings to my left; Greensboro College stands a couple of blocks to the right. Tate Street operates as the most accessible commercial strip to both. And it’s lunch time. As a result, crowds of Gen Z zombies stare at their phones instead paying attention while crossing the street in both directions, without any regard to crosswalks, traffic, common sense, or survival instinct. Fortunately, I don’t mind only being able to roll at a mile per hour at this particular moment.

I glance at the photo on my console, and peer out both ways, trying not to hit anyone in front of me. An associate had recognized them, said that I’d probably find them along here. Turns out he was right: I see them on the right, currently near a tree well providing shade in front of a coffee shop. Excellent.

I take a right onto Walker, then an immediate left into an enclosed parking lot. There’s some spaces, so I squeeze my silver Honda Civic in backwards; this always makes pulling out easier. I unplug my device, put it and the photo into my left-hand jacket pocket, climb out with the key, close the door, and lock Gidget using the fob. Then stroll out into the sunny midday crowds of Tate.

I pull my photo out with my right hand, head up street, showing it to pedestrians along the way who aren’t actually walking anywhere. “Have you seen either of these people? Have you seen this woman? How about that man? Do these two look familiar to you?” Every single person I ask either ignores me or shakes a head before looking away. Not one offers help or asks for more info. Typical.

Eventually, I walk up to the planter, and almost gag; there’s a strong aroma there, from the young lady now sitting on the bricks. “Hey,” I start, trying not to inhale too much, “anyone in this photo look familiar?” I hold the photo directly in front of her, so that she has no choice but to look.

“No,” she responds, pushing my arm away. Then she peers at me and blinks, blearily. “Hold on.” She squints at the photo again, frowns. “Yes, but I don’t know why?”

“Maybe you saw them this morning? I have reason to believe she’s going to be nearby.” I step away to take a fresh breath, and study my interviewee. She doesn’t look to even be 16, with hair dyed the pastel rainbow, unfocused green eyes, clothing with which a burn barrel would be better than a laundromat. However: there’s no tracks on her arms, her teeth look in decent shape, and there’s no burns on her lips. But the two empty Mad Dog bottles sitting at her feet spell out what addiction has got this one. “Are you okay?”

She looks at me again. “You got some cash? I just need a couple of bucks, to buy something to eat.”

“Right. Eat. Through a straw?” She scowls in response. “Tell you what. There’s some tables at NYP that I can keep an eye on the crowd from. You want to join me, maybe have a slice or two?” Her eyes widen, pupils focusing on me at that suggestion.

“Pizza?” She seems offended.

“They’ve got other stuff. Subs. Stromboli. Cake. Anything you want.”

That draws a suspicious look. “Anything?”

I nod. “Promise. If I’m sitting with you, it’ll make it look like I’m not watching for someone else.”

She makes a soft sound of comprehension (I think). “Ok.” She stands; definitely the source of the aroma, as it follows us down the block to New York Pizza. We enter the busy restaurant, where I quietly pass the hostess a $20 as a preliminary tip, and we move on to the patio outside, separated from the masses by a wrought-iron fence.

I tell the waiter to bring me diet soda and a slice of pepperoni. “And she can order anything on the menu that doesn’t involve alcohol.” I pass my credit card to the surprised young man, while my lunch date takes her time and points to half a dozen options, settling on them all.

After the drinks and before the food, I lean closer so she can hear me and vice versa. “What’s your name, doll?”

She blushes. “Madi-with-an-I-and-one-D.”

I smile. “Well, glad to meet you Madi. My name’s Joan Dark. I’m a private dick. The detective type.” I wink.

She blushes and laughs, comprehending the joke. “That’s so cool. I’ve never met one before.” I smile. She continues, “Why are you looking for those people?”

I shrug. “Cheating wife case. She’s hooked up with a younger man. Husband wants the evidence. This pic’s as close as I’ve come to proof.” She seems amazed, but then the food arrives and her empty stomach takes control of her mouth. I don’t mind, happy to watch her fill her gullet while I take occasional bites of mine.

As the next hour passes, she’s added a couple of extra options since we started. I nod to the waiter each time. I’m not sure which he’s more amazed by: my benevolence with an obvious homeless person, or how much she’s putting away. Either way, I feel very guilty about the whole thing; I am no angel.

Finally she’s finished; I add a healthy 20% to the check, pleasing the staff to no end. “Wait here a tick, Madi. I’m making sure we didn’t miss them.” I hop the fence, walk to the rear of the building, and facepalm. “Dammit! We missed her.”

Madi looks upset, as she jumps over the fence to join me. “I’m so sorry, Joan. I didn’t mean to be a distraction.” She honestly looks scared I might do something to her.

I step back, lower my voice, and smile at her. “It’s ok, Madi. Honest. I have other leads. I’ll find her eventually.” She calms a little, so I hold out my left hand. She reluctantly takes it; I squeeze her fingers very gently, and she smiles, relaxing even more. “However, I have an appointment just nearby. You want to join me?”

She blinks, caught off-guard, almost pulling her fingers away. “What? Where?”

I use my right hand to motion ahead of us, on the other side of the parking garage: St. Michael’s Anglican Church. “There’s a group I must talk to. It’ll start in about 5 minutes, and I’d appreciate it if you’d come with me? There’ll be coffee.”

She seems uncertain, but accepts the invitation, and so we walk hand-in-hand behind the church. There’s an open door, leading to a darkened room holding a half dozen participants. She looks terrified, as if the church folk are going to devour her, but she sits down next to me in the far corner.

One by one, most of the others stand, introduce themselves, and say what they have to say. It’s not long before I do so myself: “Hi, My name is Joan. And I’m an alcoholic.” The others, including Madi by now, give the appropriate response.

***

I was a police officer almost 20 years ago. It’s not easy being a woman cop. Especially a lesbian. There was a lot of peer pressure to be one of the boys. And I let it take control of my life.

I’d been in a car for almost 3 years. 21 year old hot-shot, being recruited by SWAT and detectives both. So one night, I pull over a car for speeding. Both guys in it are twitchy, so I probably should have waited for back-up. I approach. They take off. I run back to my cruiser and chase after them. We race up 40, through High Point and Winston-Salem, swerving around cars. I pull alongside them as we clear traffic, and pull off a perfect PIT maneuver, spinning them off the shoulder and into the ditch. Turns out they have drugs, guns, and even ties to some trafficking. Bust of the year.

But here’s the thing: I never got permission to knock them off the road. Didn’t even ask permission for pursuit. I was lucky nobody got hurt, or even killed, with my bravado. And you know why I did that? Because sitting in my glove compartment was a flask that I’d finished off while I was working with the radar.

I was drunk, on duty. They were already yelling at me about the permission crap. Imagine their faces when I blew a .18. While on duty. They took my badge and gun so fast I think they tore my clothing.

Luckily? The charges stuck. But other cops, my supervisors, got the credit; they had to “downplay my involvement.” And at trial? The lawyers had a field-day with me. Even if I wasn’t already good as fired, I could never work for the department again. I was toast.

That was in ‘08. It took me two more years to hit rock bottom. Lost my girlfriend. Lost my parents and brother. Cyn’s gotten married since then, has some kids. My father passed away from Covid; I’ll never have him back.

I’m 871 days sober right now. I’m still an alcoholic. I want a drink every day. But I have people I can talk to. People who are willing to help me. People like y’all, who will listen without judging. And maybe someday? I’ll be able to talk to my family the way I’m talking to you.

***

Madi follows, quiet the entire time, until we reach my car. “Was all that true?”

“You don’t tell lies in a meeting,” I respond, pulling out my keys and the device. “Honesty’s one of the most important things. Learning to forgive is another; as well as asking forgiveness.”

She nods as we climb in. She’s coming along without my even asking. “Where to next?”

I plug the device in to the connector at the end of the wire slipping out from my horn. “Shopping.” But my device catches her attention more than my answer, especially when I blow into it and, a moment later, a valve lifts on the steering column, revealing the ignition. I put the key in and start Gidget. “I can’t afford an IID,” I explain.

“IID?” She is confused, as I pull onto Tate headed south, turning left onto Gate City.

“Ignition Interlock Device. You have to blow every so often or else your car won’t run. Except you can only rent them, and calibrate them monthly. So its hundreds of bucks a month. Punishment for drunk drivers; discouraging for those who want to be responsible.” I point at the breathalyzer now sitting on the dash. “I did a job for a guy a few years ago. He was able to wire this rig together. Plus, makes it hard as hell to steal.” Madi grins as I chuckle. “Have to calibrate it, but it works. And makes sure I don’t do anything stupid.”

She’s fiddling with the device, so not paying attention as I pull into the Goodwill on Eugene. “Before we go in,” I start, as she blinks, our location registering in her head. “Here’s the rules: eight shirts, eight pants, nothing torn, everything fits; underwear and socks, new in bag; two pairs of shoes: sneakers and nice ones, as best you can find. If you don’t find enough, we’ll go elsewhere, but I prefer one stop.”

She looks at me, her voice the most sober and soft since we met. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you stink. You need clean clothes to do laundry.” I could tell she wasn’t sure, but she did climb out and join me in the store. Inside, I lean against the front window, waiting on her to pick out her choices, texting someone for a case. I glance every so often, making sure that she’s keeping her end of the bargain. In the end, it cost over $100, despite the extremely low prices.

I take some time driving around town, toward my apartment off Battleground. She starts answering my quiet questions, while staring out the window. Madison Moore, originally from Danville, VA. Nineteen years old now. After graduation, she and her girlfriend Nikki came out to both families, wanting to get married. Brave in evangelical families, I knew all too well. They ran off to Richmond to make it on their own. In months, they were on the street, whoring for food and hotel rooms. Shortly after, Nikki OD’d and Madi ran. She’d heard that Greensboro was homeless-friendly, turned some tricks for the bus ticket. She’d managed to avoid the drugs, but booze helped her survive the grind. She doesn’t trust the shelters, not after an incident she refuses to discuss. She barely trusts the Resource Center, but gets checked out there regular enough. How she’s avoided the cops, she has no clue. She usually stays under the Freeman Mill overpass, on Spring Garden. Except when her johns and janes buy rooms for the night, or she trusts one and stays in their place. Very rare occurrences.

We go to the Walmart on Yanceyville. She picks out some hygiene products. I pick out dinner, a rotisserie chicken. Lowest receipt yet for the day, but it’s all the same to me. We return to the Civic and climb in. “Did you just call your car Gidget?” she asks. Gotta watch the talking to myself.

“Yes, her name is Gidget.” She laughs; I explain. “First reason: her plate reads GID-6377. Total random draw when I bought her a dozen years ago. Had to be fate. So she’s Gidget.”

“What’s the other reason?” Madi’s studying me now, fully invested in what I have to say.

“You’re probably too young, but there used to be a TV show I watched reruns of, about a girl on a beach. I had the biggest crush on her. That’s when I knew.” She nods. I sigh. Oh, Sally Field….

As the sun sets, we pull into the parking lot off of Mizell. I reverse into my spot. “Grab your stuff. You’re responsible for it.” She struggles with the bags as I let her into my studio apartment. I immediately point to the bathroom. “Shower. Whatever else you need.” I dig out a garbage bag. “For your old stuff.” In minutes, I hear the water running. Two ways I can play it. I exchange some more texts while sitting at the dining table deboning the chicken, notching one bone in particular. Probably not the birthday thing.

The water stops. She steps out completely nude, lies on the bed.

“What the hell are you doing?!” It’s the first time I’ve yelled at her all day.

She blinks, surprised. “I thought….”

I point at the bathroom. “Get dressed now! Don’t do that!” I’m visibly upset. She vanishes, returning after a few minutes in her new threads. She sits across from me at the table, eyes down. I push a loaf of bread, some mayo, and the chicken at her. “Stop that. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“But… you don’t want me?” Her voice drips with pity as she stares at the sandwich fixings.

“Stop. That’s not why. You’re not in a position to consent.” My sandwich sits untouched on the plate; I’m not sure I’m hungry anymore. Definitely not the birthday thing.

She looks at me; her eyes are actually tearing up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you must pull your life together. Then….” I let it lie.

She sighs, and starts making her sandwich. As good a time as any.

“First step, call your parents.” You’d think she’d just had all the blood sucked out of her body. “You heard me. You have to call them. Tell them you forgive them. Ask for forgiveness yourself.”

Her voice finally caught up to her mouth. “They kicked me out! They called me evil!”

I nod. “And that’s why you must forgive them.”

She’s still angry. “And what do they need to forgive me for, being gay? Not promising I’ll marry a boy? Not giving them the grand-babies they want?”

I shake my head. “No. For not calling them sooner.”

She crosses her arms, defiant.

“OK.” I hold up the Y-shaped bone next to my plate. “Chickens have wishbones, you know? Let’s make a deal. If you hold the bigger piece, you get your wish. I hold it, I get my wish. Deal?” She’s furious, but nods and grips the other end. “Make a wish.”

*snap*

“My wish, Madi Moore, is for you to call your parents. Please?”

She looks reluctant, but at least she’s not crossing her arms.

Using the phone hanging on the wall, I dial their number and pass it to her.

*ringring* “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice, one that’s aged a century in a year.

“Mama?” Madi’s reverted to a childish voice. “Is that you?”

There’s some shouting from the other end; Madi’s crying tears of joy. I step outside, call the number I’ve been texting, search my pockets. Light the cigarette I’ve craved all day. The PI coordinating with me answers; I can hear her parents’ voices on his end.

“How long?”

“We’ll be there in 30. How did you find her?”

“Friend on the force almost nabbed her. Knew she’d be around Tate. Just a matter of drawing her in.” I study my photographs.

“After they found the Wilson girl’s body….”

“It’s Greensboro, Jake. The Gate City is always open to the homeless.” Her and Nikki, graduating.

“Well, it worked, Dark. What do I owe you?”

The other: my mother and my brother, from a distance, at my father’s funeral. “I’ll send you the receipts and my bill.”