“Fuck me!”
The outburst startled a middle-aged man in a short, plaid coat. He looked up toward the sound and then immediately down to the sidewalk. After a moment he looked up again then spun in a slow semi-circle searching the horizon for cameras, police, bystanders, anything to explain the situation in which he found himself.
The voice propositioned him at every turn. “Yeah, up here, you wanna fuck me real good. Just come on up and whip it out.”
The man looked up again, locking eyes with the demure, waif-like girl who called to him. Wispy blonde hair and bright, glassy green eyes. She sat motionless on the fire escape adjoining the second floor of a three-story midcentury townhome. The house itself occupied the middle section of the block, bordered on the right by a nearly identical home and on the left by a field wreathed in ivy and hedges. Beyond that, another townhome marked the far-left edge of the block. Behind it, another row of houses, elevated as the blocks ascended to a peak some five streets beyond. Narrow alleys separated the houses from each other. They contained a fire escape of wrought iron steps and small balconies winding down from the third story to the second with a spring-loaded ladder connecting the second floor to the ground.
The second-floor escape was wrapped entirely in cloth. It resembled, depending on the angle, either a padded cell or an Easter basket. Bright pastel pink blankets, more subdued blues and green towels, and the fluttering remnants of white sheets wound about the bars. Her legs were pushed through the bars, chubby about the ankle and the arch of the foot. Her right knee was scuffed. The legs were bare but even in the shadows of the escape, it was clear she wore a dressing gown pulled up and pressed into the bars.
The man backed away, casting nervous glances behind and above until he got to the left corner and bolted up the street.
Despite the graphic taunts she cast, she presented a flat affect. Her words carried a variety of pitches and intonations, adding a hyperactive, almost gleeful quality to her words. However, she remained stiff, almost inanimate, while speaking. Her legs didn’t so much as sway in hours. Her hand held tightly to the bars in a grip that left her knuckles white and her thumbs red.
Olivier sat on a small bench in the park across the street. Late 30s, average height and build, his wavy hair was brown but could appear reddish in the right light. He wore a blue t-shirt under a black dress shirt and matching dark-colored jeans. The t-shirt hung loose with the words ‘free the’ visible. He wiggled his worn sneakers in the grass. It was early spring and the grass was overgrown, waiting for that first cut to mark the emerging season. He made notes to himself in a tattered moleskin. Like many behaviors, writing notes was an affectation learned through centuries of scrutiny. “Subject: Laura Wilks. Seven years old. Blonde hair, green eyes.”
Hanging on the back of the bench, Guriel nodded emphatically. A tow-headed scamp with ruddy, cherubic cheeks and a twisted nose. His short pants were ragged from wear and his thick corduroy coat was smeared with grease and dirt. “It’s like I told ya, Ollie. She’s been up there for weeks yelling at anybody who comes by. She don’t eat or sleep. Just sits there all day and night yelling shit at people.”
Olivier cringed, “What’s with the Oliver Twist accent? You’re in New England, not England England. Do people not question you?”
Guriel pulled himself up and over the bench, flopping and rolling to the grass on the other side. “It’s all part of a schtick. Not like most people listen to me. I claim to be from Boston and they let it go. Look, I’ll do my thing, you do yours.”