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 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 they 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.

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