Talking to Myself, #9: Ms. Wanda
It took a few years, but Ms. Wanda and I ultimately became friends of sorts.
Ms. Wanda was all business in her big age, hustling well-meaning white kids for whatever guilt money they might frantically cough up in bouts of privilege anxiety. She pounded the pavement with triple the work ethic of any of us. Night after night, making the rounds. Not one night would go by without seeing Ms. Wanda in her classic get-up.
Hair slicked back, house shoes, purse, hand on hip.
She had all the unabashed confidence of a timeworn Baltimore native — in other words, she had not even the glimmer of a single fuck to give.
One night, Ms. Wanda saw me pull up and park alongside the same block she’d always seen me on. We got to talking and she asked me if I would give her a ride home later. I won’t lie, it wasn’t exactly the quickest thing I’ve ever said yes to. All the usual classist thoughts apply.
But I asked her where she lived. I came to find out that where she stayed was three blocks from where I stayed. Clearly, I couldn’t say no. I told her to come find me outside the bar later and I’d take her home.
So began the routine of Ms. Wanda clocking out for the night, finding me outside the bar, and joining me for the ride home.
Those rides home were never quiet. In that ten-minute drive over west, I’d hear about Ms. Wanda’s grandkids, her difficult relationship with her daughter, and her thoughts about going back to rehab. With the charm of 1,000 grandmothers combined, she’d ask about my family and drop one shimmering gem after another.
And in between gems, well…she made sure to tell me how badly she needed some.
Me too, Ms. Wanda, me — the fuck — too.
One night I rolled up to the bar and Ms. Wanda intercepted me all hurried:
— “Hey Buddy, can you give me a ride?”
That’s what she calls me: buddy.
— “Uhh wait right now?”
— “Yes. Pleaseeee.”
I looked at my friend and said, “Let me run Ms. Wanda home real fast. I’ll be back in a few.”
Fifteen minutes later I got back to the bar and went inside. Hour or two later, it was time to get some air. My friend and I walk outside and, lo and behold, there she was. Ms. Wanda: back, showered, and changed. All business.
Several months of this buddy flick would continue before one random night.
It was a night like any other. I was one-third turnt. Fully able to drive. I’m standing outside the bar with a friend and here she comes power walking down the block.
— “Hey buddy, can you give me a ride tonight?”
— “Yeah I got you Ms. Wanda”
— “Alright buddy, let me know when you’re ready.”
After twenty minutes or so, I waved to Ms. Wanda that I was heading home.
— “Okay buddy, can you take me to get something to eat first?”
She never asked that before. There were a couple food counters open, assuming she meant that and not some corner store. Nothing was on the way. But, there were a few corner stores nearby and a 711 around the way. Maybe that’s what she meant.
We get in the car, drive up the road two blocks, and hit a red light. Ms. Wanda leans forward and looks to the left.
— “Nah not here, let’s keep going.”
— “Where to?”
— “The way we usually go.”
So I hang a couple lefts and turn right onto the main road. I know the way we usually go and I can’t for the life of me think of a food spot along that route. Ms. Wanda directs me further up the road, beyond the turn we would normally make. She tells me to turn left after the gas station.
We ride by a cop parked in the back of the gas station. She tells me to go a little further down. Then my brain did that guilt thing where it couldn’t decide between “ah, ‘food’…right…” and “maybe…there’s…a…corner…store?…maybe?”
I turn right onto a typical residential block: rowhome after rowhome after rowhome. Except this block has to be the darkest block in all of Baltimore. Not a single light in any conceivable direction except for the two exploding with zero subtlety out the front of my car.
And definitely no food.
— “Pull over here.”
— “Here?”
— “Yes, here.”
Ms. Wanda rolls her window down.
— “Tell him to turn his fucking lights off!”
— “Buddy, turn your lights off.”
The only thing even remotely food-like about this situation was the vanilla oozing from every pore of my very vanilla body. Turn the lights off. Of course turn the fucking lights off.
The lights go off, Ms. Wanda handles her business, and I’m begging every force of benevolence in the universe that the cop doesn’t suddenly get the itch to play officer. But I’m white, so he probably won’t, and what do you know, he didn’t. She finished. Time to head home.
I drop Ms. Wanda off and head to my apartment. And then I realize I’m pissed.
How could she put me in that situation? I could’ve been stopped for that. Why couldn’t she just be honest with me? That was reckless. Etc. Etc.
I didn’t give Ms. Wanda a ride home for a while after that. I felt disrespected. But, she felt bad too. Embarrassed even. I would eventually come to realize that. After all, she would still ask for money, but rarely ever again for a ride.
But, she also never asked for this situation to begin with. Is it her fault that she’s forced to put herself and others in danger just to give her brain relief? Yeah, maybe some disagree with the nature of that relief, but it’s relief nonetheless. What if all I had to do was drive her to a 24-hour pharmacy to get a fix? Over the counter with everything else. Maybe by prescription?
Point is, it would be safer. After all, Ms. Wanda can’t go back to rehab if she’s dead.
It took me longer than it should have to see the forest for the trees. Not only was I mostly physically safe in my car, but I was also safe in not even having to consider what it would mean to need to risk my actual freedom and livelihood on — literally — a daily basis just to experience the most fleeting sense of peace. I felt like I had wronged her.
Then covid happened.
* * *
I was standing outside the bar the other day for the first time in a year and a half when I saw a familiar silhouette in the distance.
Hair slicked back, house shoes, purse, hand on hip.
Ms. Wanda made it through quarantine. I had been worried about her, but frankly, I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s not easily put on her ass, as you might imagine.
As she walked up the block, it really hit me how long it had been. And how much a part of my life she actually had become. It was like running into a relative, but in the way that doesn’t require you to bring it up in therapy the following week. You know, not dread.
Certainly, we were going to have this great big conversation. Smiles with full teeth. Balloons falling from some undetermined balloon-holding surface.
And then she stepped to me, made eye contact, and said:
— “Hey buddy, you got a couple dollars?”
All business.
