Shiri Gross
Saturday Night Jail Cell
Orange is not a good color for anyone. Not this orange at least. This orange was the most unhappy shade of orange on the planet. It looks like a mixture of mud and the color of a yield sign. I doubt these people ever yield.
When I first arrived about three hours ago I tried not to look at anyone. I did not know how hard it was to stare at one gray patch of a cement wall. Eventually, my eyes had to move and I could not allow myself to sleep. As if there was any room to sleep on a cold, stone hard bench with three people.
First, my eyes slid over to the left. A huge white woman was sitting next to me, practically taking up the entire bench. From what I could see she looked 40, at the least. Her face was sinking in the places they should after 40 hard years on this Earth. In addition, her nearly bald head had little baby gray hairs sprouting up like flowers after the cold winter. The lines on her forehead revealed she was so accustomed to frowning that eventually it never left her face. Her complexion was the white that comes with malnutrition and shock. Although, she did not act shocked. Her disposition revealed that she was fully aware and accepting of the events that brought her to the grim present she was a part of.
I was not comfortable looking at her. Her grey blue eyes were actually beautiful, and made me sad. I imagined what they would look like on a face with less struggle and pain written all over it.
I decided maybe it would be better to look across the room to the other bench. There were two women sitting on the bench. The woman on the right looked hispanic. She was young and full of, what I interpreted as, attitude. She kept rolling her eyes and leaning back on the wall behind her. She had hair practically down to her hips that was beautifully strong, black, and stick straight. I genuinely wondered what had landed her here, but it was an unwritten rule that one should not ask.
The woman next to her was African American and looked almost 70. I had no idea what she could have done. She looked like a grandmother who should be making cookies and knitting a scarf. Her face was sweet looking and wrinkled. Her hands looked like the hands of an elderly person; the veins popping out and the knuckles extremely prominent.
She noticed someone was looking at her and she suddenly looked me in the eyes. I did not know why, but the sides of my mouth began to turn up into a small smile. The next second or two seemed to drag on into infinity. I was suddenly anxious of what her response would be. How lovely it would be to receive a smile tonight.
When she processed what had happened she stuck up her middle finger and then looked the other way again. I decided not to look at anyone anymore.
