Suicide Sue
Dirty Sue removed the stitches
in her wrist with her teeth. That’s how I remember her, and that’s what she
was doing when I last saw her alive in March of ’72.
She sat next to me on the bus
ride to Poor Profits, a head shop in Lowertown. I was doing my Saturday
usual, a consignment drop off of my handmade jewelry in exchange for a
check. My beaded flower necklaces sold surprisingly well during the week.
Dirty Sue was going in to score acid from Martin Opsal, who sat at the till
on Saturdays in a cloud of Jasmine incense and one-hits. I usually arrived
in time to balance the cash drawer before he closed the store at 4:00 p.m.
A fifty-four dollar profit was a good day, meaning Martin frequently dug
into his drug supply monies to keep the store afloat.
It was two days before St.
Patrick’s Day. St. Paul had hosted their annual parade three hours earlier,
leaving the streets littered with soggy paper shamrocks and green vomit.
Our stop was St. Peter and Seventh. Poor Profits was on the corner with an
orange awning, not an anti-Irish gesture, simply Martin’s favorite color.
Dirty Sue had on orange hip huggers and an orange bandanna covering her
dirty hair. At one time the rubber flip-flops she wore 365 days a year may
have been orange. Now were a dirty shade of pewter to match her feet.
The Finley twins, Jack and
Jinx, two dropouts that lived in a shack behind the railroad tracks, hung
their heads over St. Peter, swaying on the curb. Jinx slurred something our
way, then threw his head back and laughed. “Suicide Sue,” Jack said, and
mimicked his brother’s laughter. Jack started counting paper money, over
fifty dollars that they split and pocketed. Dirty Sue traipsed over to the
twins. Jack stood and peed on Dirty Sue’s bare foot. I dug my hands in my
pockets, squeezed the beaded necklaces and felt my throat fill with bile. I
looked across the street in search of Martin’s silhouette inside the store,
but couldn’t find it. Dirty Sue started tearing at the threads that held
her wrist together. I ran across the street, flung open the door and
screamed for Martin while the twins were pummeling Dirty Sue. Through the
window of Poor Profits I saw her arms swinging and blood flying. Martin was
nowhere to be found. The till was open and empty. An envelope sat on the
counter with Dirty Sue’s name on it. Inside were seven hits of windowpane
and a paper shamrock that read, “One a day to make the pain go away,
Martin.” I slunk in the corner and listened to Dirty Sue swear her heart
out until all was quiet. I struck a match and lit incense, slid the
envelope into my bead pocket and held on tight.
END