Socorro rolls the bills and holds them together with the plastic rubber band that she used to keep the roses in order. Then she places it in the depth of her dirty brown canvas purse, inside a secret pocket she sewed in herself in case someone tried to rob her. As she walks the dark streets she fantasizes that a thief with a blade would demand her money and she would open the purse and shake it upside down spilling unto the concrete sidewalk extra shoe strings, rubber bands, a pencil, a teetered notebook and whatever she is selling. As the thief walks away empty handed, Socorro imagines that she smiles to herself triumphantly and pats the secret pocket filled with her earnings. Maybe she looks old and fragile, but Socorro feels proud that she can outsmart anyone who attempts to take advantage of her. She can still hold her own.
Although she should call it a night, there is plenty of traffic in la avenida Francisco de Miranda. So, rather than going home, Socorro decides to sell the packets of gum and left-over candy she has in her purse. The main street crosses the heart of the financial district of Caracas. It is the best time to beg or sell without having to walk long stretches. Socorro wears a gray dress that falls below her knees, a piece of flowered cloth that covers her gray hair and alpargatas, cheap Venezuelan shoes made of black cloth with hard soles made of wood and rope. She shuffles from car to car, knocking lightly on the glass windows, offering her best closed-lip crooked smile and holding up the candy and a packet of spearmint gum.
“Chiché, caramelo?”
On average, every three cars, the driver opens the window and purchases a piece. She notices it is mostly men and imagines they feel more confident about opening their window and want to have good breath when they get home to their beautiful wives. Socorro is not a pushy seller; she waits three seconds by each window, looks at the driver and moves on to the next vehicle. Pushy sellers give everyone a bad rap. Socorro hates the group of men who sell bad pens supposedly to raise money for recovering drug addicts. She doesn’t trust them, and neither does anyone else. When they are around most drivers keep their windows shut and ignore every seller. In bumper to bumper traffic and in the absence of the pen pushers many drivers lower their windows and chat with the street sellers. Socorro really enjoys the conversations she has with random drivers even though it is always small talk. Those transitory connections make her feel real, alive, human. To Socorro a greeting or a smile is like a flicker of light at the end of a dark and scary tunnel. She dreads the weeks when no one talks to her because it make her feel like she doesn’t matter, like no one will ever notice when she dies.
Down five cars Socorro noticed that a platinum four-wheeler of some fancy brand had left the gas hatchet completely open. Quickly, she shuffles to the driver’s window and finds a middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat with flawless white skin, bleached blond hair and big diamond earrings. From outside the car, Socorro can hear the rhythmic peaks and valleys of classical music, muffled slightly by the noise of the air conditioning on high. Socorro taps lightly on the window and waits. At first, the woman is startled by the old lady looking into her window and then, she ignores her. Socorro taps a few more times and points to the back of the car while the woman raises the volume of the music and stares straight ahead. Humiliated and overwhelmed by her own insignificance, Socorro shuffles away hurt and wondering if she is as repugnant to look at as a dirty cockroach. On that note, Socorro decides that fifteen hours of work is enough for one day. It is nine when she finally heads home.
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