Bag Lady Bride

Predictable rhythms govern our community service center: In the spring, long lines of street people come in for cooler clothing and in the fall, they returned for warmer. It was a rainy October afternoon here in Portland the first time I saw her. She did not stand out from our other community service center customers: Her shopping cart was well worn; she dressed no better; she was just as thin and dirty. But there were some differences. She did not mumble under her breath to herself as some of the others did. She took what she needed, signed out and left. Her only claim to recognition was a subtle air of gentility: an erect posture; a level appraising eye; a smile;. Her signature, the first time I met her, was elegant-John Hancock would have been proud. But soon she faded into the mist of so many others and I nearly forgot her.

But not quite. Those small differences brought her to memory the next spring when winter clothes were too warm for the increasingly sunny days. I recognized her and smiled a greeting. She returned the smile, bent to sign and left with her new clothes, pushing her cart ahead of her.

Things would probably have continued this way indefinitely, had I not asked her, on her third visit at the beginning of the new rainy season, how she happened to have such beautiful penmanship.

She smiled, revealing stained and broken teeth, and said, “Well, after all, I am engaged to the prince, you know.” Her tone was not haughty, but had a certain ring of someone accustomed to wealth. Her choice of words made me blink in surprise.

“He’s coming to get me someday soon.” she said as she turned to leave.

Many were the delusions of the people of the street. Some thought they were god, some that they cwere president. One man wore aluminum foil on his head continually to ward off the spying beams of the FBI which, he said, was using microwave ovens to read his thoughts. Others were convinced they were Jesus Christ. Still others believed they were Mohamed the prophet. A self-deluded Elijah wore a sackcloth robe with a rope for a belt. He came not for clothing but for the bags in which the clothes were packed. But she was different. It was not the incoherent story of one long lost in their own tortured grandiosity. There was a certain calm assurance in her statements.

I wondered if she would be back in the spring.

She was. Winter had been hard on her. Her hair was streaked with more grey. She was thinner and her skin more wrinkled. She looked like she had aged ten years. The center was nearly empty as she browsed the aisles. When she approached me, she smiled in recognition.

“Has he come for you yet?” I asked, half afraid of the answer.

“No, not yet.” she said, wistfully.


“Why not,” I asked.

“Well, I don’t really know. He has promised to marry me and take me away from all this.” she waved her hand vaguely taking in her whole circumstance. “But he hasn’t yet. He promised to send me money to keep me off the streets, but he hasn’t done that either.” Her voice was not whining, but puzzled.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Oh, he lives just down the block from here.” she answered.

“Do you see him?”

“Oh, yes, quite often, most nearly every week.”

“Does he, er, well, are you sure he’s going to marry you? I mean…” I tried to backpedal a bit. “Why hasn’t he come for you?” brazen in my curiosity.

“I don’t know. He set up a bank account for me, I guess, but I haven’t learned to use it yet. He asked me to set a date for the wedding and promised to buy the dress, but I just feel awful asking him to do that. I’m trying to save enough for it myself.”

“How much do you have?”

“Twenty five dollars,” she said.

“But...”

“I know, at that rate, I’ll never get married, will I?” she sighed in resignation.

“But if he is willing....”

“Ah, now there’s the rub isn’t it? I do have my pride you know. Can’t have the groom buying the bride a dress for the wedding. I’ll make it someday,” she said as she shuffled out the door.