Bright, flashy, red -- Big Red, they call it. Newest attraction down on River Market. Runs clean over to North town, down through all them new open-air stores and restraunts and veg stands. They're all wild for that Razorback stuff. Big Red, Little Rock's new, old trolley. It's not like them electric cars what runs through San Fransico, this here is diesel and stinks like one of them old Browns creeping through the orchards up around Clarksville. A God awful stink setting trailer hands gasping through bandanas.
It's not for her, don't you know, it's for the tourists. The new generation of goobers what works in the mirror-face buildings hiding the bankers and insurance scammers and the lawyers. Especially them lawyers. Them what took everything and left her out without a house nor clothes nor kin. Them what took little Kristana and Jobena, all because of a little drink. Just a little drink, every once in a while, not that often.
She try twice before to ride the trolley, but the ticket taker done throwed her off, none too gentle, neither. And they spit on her, them friendly laughing tourists in their yellow Beachcombers, blue and pink coverups, all slathered in Banana Boat coconut juice. They spit and swear as the trolley pulls on by; she don't even hold up a hand. That new attraction ain't for everybody, she know.
Late Sunday, her feet blistered from crossing town, five, maybe, six mile. She's headed to Backyard Burger to sleep on the benches under the lights cause it's safe. She been through that a couple of times; it's worth the walk. In the morning, it's on over to the Food Pantry for breakfast then back over to Our House for supper. Be nice to ride for a while, nice to get off them feet with the nutted bunion and that gnarled up big toe. Be nice to sit down a while, where the cops don't slow down and stare, stare like they hate you -- it'd be nice.
Them feet are just too beatup to wear shoes no more. She slips on a heel-worn pair of pink flippies -- flip-flops. The strap done come out the hole on the left one where it pulled through and split across the sole. She's got to scuff along just to keep it on.
It's late and a tired drooping sun leans over against the edge of the Main Street bridge. The street lights wink and blink and pop warning of the evening. Sunday won't see nobody walking the streets and the trolley is winding down, heading for roundhouse, fluorescent lights already beaming up on advertising plaques.
She waits at the 3rd Street stop, her bag cutting a furrow between sagging breasts. Her hair is frazzled and wild and her eyes, tired and spent. Sweat glistens her cheeks and stains her dress wet at the pits and in that furrow along the line of the bag. The accordian gate presses against itself and the driver winces when he looks up and sees her. She stands with an outstretched arm, hand balled up. He looks up in the mirror at the rows of empty seats and nods. She trips as she steps up and leaves behind that ruined flippy. He shakes his head as the change drops in the cage. She watches his eyes cross over the slug atop quarters and dimes and nickles. He blinks her back to a seat and closes the gate, pulls out from the curb, flips off the light and eases out into the night.