© 1996

"Hi, spare change?"

"No, sorry. Not today," says Fuller not even looking down in her direction.

"Wait, please wait" she begs.

Fuller hesitates and stops.

The other pedestrians flow around them.

"You can spit on me for a dollar," she offers.

Fuller stares at her speechless.

"I know you despise me."

For a minute, Fuller stops breathing. He is dressed in a business suit standing at a busy downtown street corner across from a park. He looks down at the panhandler. She is dressed in old blue jeans and a man's faded, plaid, wool shirt.

She's thin with long brown hair. Her hair is parted in the middle. Her face has a pale, innocent, almost angelic look.

In other circumstances, she could be a young college student, an artist, or the daughter of a business associate. There is nothing exceptional about her. Countless beggars like her loiter around the downtown streets asking for spare change.

She is probably a drug addict, a homeless teenager, or a prostitute. Maybe, she's one of those cocaine whores that Fuller has read about in the X-Rated Men's magazines. The other pedestrians flow around Fuller and the beggar girl, as if they were rocks in the middle of a stream, oblivious to their existence.

"You'll let me spit on you?"

"Only if you give me a dollar."

"Do you want me to spit on you?"

"You despise me, and for a dollar you can spit on me."

The girl says these last words with a conviction that defies rebuttal. It is this last comment that causes Fuller to stop breathing. It isn't the words. The words are innocent. Spoken out loud on a street corner where vulgar sexual profanities are frequently shouted. No, it isn't the words. It is the implication.

For Fuller, the implication briefly suspends time while his imagination runs wild with the possibilities.

He is repulsed by her offer, but attracted to the options.

If he can spit on her, what other bodily fluid exchanges will she consider?

"Well mister, make up your mind."

Fuller considers carefully before responding.

"No thank you, but we might think of something else."

"Like what?" she quickly throws the problem back to him.

"Well, like a kiss."

"No, sorry, I don't kiss strangers."

Confused, Fuller shifts strategies.

"You're a tease," he counters.

"Maybe. Are you man enough to find out?"

"Are you old enough?"

"I'm old enough to know how."

"I'll bet you are," answers Fuller.

He looks at her more closely. She doesn't appear to be wearing any bra beneath the plaid shirt.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer," the girl taunts him.

"I'll give you a dollar."

"OK, but no drooling. Just spitting once."

"No," says Fuller.

"You really do despise me, don't you?"

"No."

"OK, for $1.50 you can drool all over my face."

Fuller imagines doing something similar to drooling all over her face, picturing the thick viscous fluid flow around her mouth and drip off her chin. He imagines it dripping inside her shirt onto her breasts.

"No," he answers.

"Forget it, cheapskate, if $1.50 is too high."

"It's not too high."

"Well, bite me!"

With an exaggerated shrug of exasperation the beggar girl flips her long hair off to one side and looks him directly in the eyes. Fuller responds.

"Two dollars, but you'll have to bend over to pick it up."

"That's all?"

"No, you need to undo the top two buttons on your shirt first."

For the first time, the girl smiles.

"Now I get your game."

"But not here."

"Where?"

"Over by that park bench across the street."

As if they know each other, the girl and Fuller walk across the street to the park. An old wino with a scruffy beard sits on one end of the park bench. He's drinking out of a wine bottle, poorly concealed in a paper bag.