Piece of Chicken?

The responding officer’s summary of the incident was as follows:

LEOs arrived on scene at the Highway 42 truck stop at 0715. Victim reported theft. Victim produced security footage and identified employee Starla Moore, closing shift employee as suspect. Suspect’s address is listed as 1700 S. Harbor Rd. Ms. Moore was located with Chick’a’liscious merchandise in her possession. 

It’s a long way up from the bottom. Then, the bottom falls out.

BiPolar, a slew of personality disorders – if you can name a psychological unbalance in Starla’s life, you’d be correct and she’s been diagnosed with it. Unable to maintain employment, or her own wellbeing, yet a grown woman able to produce children nonetheless.

Starla’s two children Neveah and Maximus currently reside in state foster care.

After the culmination of one particularly bad bout of dark depression, their home, a small two bedroom apartment in government housing, fell into a state of filth and disgust. Roaches and rot were the kids’ daily environment. The housing agency reported the conditions to DHS who confiscated Starla’s children and then legally evicted her.

Without children, Starla was denied most forms of assistance. No more food stamps, housing, medicaid health insurance, or food boxes. She was absolutely on her own when she settled at the homeless encampment on S Harbor Rd three months ago.

Starla has no family to lean on. Her childhood was a predictable blueprint to her current existence. Neveah went with one foster family and Max to another. Each of those families are paid $700 per month plus housing and food stamp benefits.

A deepseeded motivation took hold. Instinct. She wasn’t a bad mother. With the love she has always had for her children driving her, Starla went right to work doing everything her children’s case worker told her to do.

Starla signed up for weekly parenting classes and went to the free clinic to see about getting on some meds again. They sometimes help for a little while. The lifetime of antipsychotic medications has left her with uncontrollable body twitches and mouth-movements. If she had a dollar for everytime she was called a ‘tweaker,’ she wouldn’t be sleeping in a tent. The kids need a clean, stable home. And most definitely, under any circumstances, do not get involved with law enforcement.

In a lucky break, the truck stop gas station near the encampment hired her on as the closing cashier. She’d work 9pm-2am 5 days a week for $10/hr. Before taxes, that’s $250 per week.

People are often put off by the condition of her teeth. Dental work is impossible to access. She can see how they stare at her mouth when she talks. 

Bad teeth never stopped a horny trucker from making lewd propositions.

Last night was especially taxing on Starla. She had finished cleaning the men’s bathroom and then some beast of a human who apparently had no mother to potty train him sprayed diarrhea all over the seat and onto the wall.

The coffee machine spilled cleaning solution onto the floor and a clearly popular gaggle of teenage girls called her “snaggle tooth” when she refused to sell them a fruity vape.

Back at the encampment, most of the people did what they could to get by. Each was mostly considerate of their neighbors and shared good fortune amongst each other. Society’s forgotten caring for one and other.

Some of the houseless people had been jungling in the city-owned, unmaintained green space sarcastically coined ‘Royal Acres’ for nearly a year. The garbage and waste buildup was clear evidence of long term habitation. Where are people without walls going to acquire trash service? Plumbing? 

Family heirlooms were stored beneath tarps outside of tents awaiting the day they may once again be proudly displayed and sentimental stories told to visitors in the comfort of a safe home.

At the end of her shifts, part of Starla’s duties included cleaning out the hot boxes, and tossing any unsold food. Anything in the coolers and refrigerators past the expiration date lands in the dumpster.

Where do all the unsold seasonal items go? You guessed it! Out the back door and into a secured dumpster cage. Locking dumpsters ensures nobody acquires merchandise without paying for it.

Given her lack of refrigeration, and money, and her desire to save money for a new home with her children. Starla began rescuing a few pieces of chicken, bruised fruit or expired milks from a wasteful landfill fate.

Last night, there was much more leftover food than a normal Saturday after the bar crowds swerved and slopped their way home. Starla believes in her heart that everybody deserves something to eat and she has plenty to share.

With love and care, Starla packaged up meals and boxes of fried chicken, stale burritos and shriveled hotdogs (for the dogs). She placed them in a black trash can liner and set the bag behind the back door as she finished up her duties, alone in the store.

Some of the other ladies at Royal Acres turned tricks at the truck stop. Active alcohol addiction was on display everywhere. Stopping the shakes drove many of the campers while love and hope pushed Starla on.

She hand-delivered the meals around 3am and left some outside of tents.

The sounds of a homeless camp after dark are as unsettling as one would expect. Arguments where things sound terrifyingly intense between a person and themself. Sound carries each dirty word and ball-slap of people fucking without the privacy of walls, dogs barking, coughing and a variety of voices laughing or crying.

Starla settled onto the bed pad in the confines of her 2-person tent to eat her dinner with the light from a headlamp she recharged at work. Her phone had run out of data and payday was two days away. Sleep never came easily.

There’s no reason the sounds of people talking, or even shouting, should wake Starla from slumber. It was daylight, and the morning pee was calling. She snatched up a box of chicken, unzipped the tent and stood up into the brightness of a new day, right into two unamused officers. 

She shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand and extended the box of chicken with her other, “Good morning!” she said. “Piece of chicken?”

“Starla Moore?” they asked in unison. They were both brown haired, with a high and tight official-type haircut, similar build and dressed exactly the same.

“Yessirs. I really do need to pee. Just waking up. May I step into my “facilities”?” she emphasized the word ‘facilities’ with finger air quotes.

“I need you to come with me,” one ordered.

Starla was escorted down a line of her friends and neighbors who were detained in handcuffs headed towards a cluster of police cars with more officers inside working on computers.

A female officer patted her down and Starla was placed in the backseat of a car. As she sat she reminded them all, very loudly, how badly she needed to pee.

From inside the car she watched as some in the line of the unhoused detainees were led to cars. Others were uncuffed and written tickets.

The twin cops who had arrested Starla for theft had now added trespassing, littering, illegal camping and possession of stolen property charges. They stood outside her window animatedly talking. Starla was yelling, screaming and pleading to use a restroom.

She hit her head on the window to get a glance in her direction where she screamed, again, that she was about to pee her pants. They apathetically turned away, continuing their exchange.

Starla sat by herself on an absolutely waterproof cramped plastic backseat, hands behind her back and quietly wept. Alone in all the world as the warm liquid filled her seat. She marinated in a cooling pool of piss as city workers with garbage bags had conversations with the officers.

When the unhurried officers opened their doors they made disgusted faces, “Jesus fucking Chrst. The animal fucking pissed herself. Put down the windows.”

As they made their way back to a main road, Starla heard people shouting at their ticketed friends, “Stardust! Hey Honey, grab my secret box in my bed!! Save it please!”

“Get that bag! Save my shoes! Call my momma!” the shouts called from the back seats of police cars

Frantic people ran from tent to tent trying to save what little they could of their friends’ only worldly possessions before the rest of the cleanup crews arrived to evict them.

Two flatbed trucks loaded with commercial garbage dumpsters were poised at the entrance waiting for the police procession to pass.

Now tentless, Starla is walked through the entire booking process at the jail attached to City Hall in cold urine soaked pants.

You’ve probably smirked at her mugshot.