The children in Wicker Park called her Cigarette Mary. In the mornings on their way to school, they would giggle as they watched this little woman walk the streets in a ragged trench coat and old tennis shoes. Cigarette Mary had a round face with cheeks that sagged below her jaw line and her shaggy grey hair fell to her shoulders. Her brown eyes would bug out as if ready to pop from their sockets and she would nervously twitch her toothless mouth from side to side. There was always a bathless odor about her.
On some mornings, she would stop in her tracks when she heard the children laughing and curse them in Polish, spitting a bullet of saliva in their direction. The kids would run in terror for a short distance until they felt safe from her reach. Cigarette Mary would never stop long enough to watch them run. She had more important matters on her mind.
During the morning rush hour, she would walk with a slight bounce at the balls of her feet to the corner of Division and Damen and stand at the bus stop, begging for cigarettes and spare change. She would ask politely, her voice meek as a child asking for candy.
“Excuse me mister,” she would say, her hands wringing together with girlish charm, “but do you happen to have a spare cigarette, a papierosy?”
If a man would nod yes and reach into his pocket for the pack, then Cigarette Mary would rock from the balls to the heels of her feet. Her fingertips would tap together in the delight of receiving a gift.
“Dziekuje mister!” she would thank the man and then quickly add, “Do you have 35 cents?”
The man would pull back his head in disbelief that his kindness was being taken advantage of and let a grunt to show his disdain. She would quickly turn her back on him, wasting no time in search of another prospect. She would never smoke a cigarette until she had begged for at least an hour.
Even the blast of the sub-zero winds didn’t stop her from coming out in the mornings. In front of the Damen Avenue bus stop, she would stand with her shoulders hunched so that her thin collar would protect her neck. She would dig her hands into her coat pockets and press the tattered garment close to her as the wind lifted the coat from under her. If there weren’t any people standing around, she would pass the time by looking through the window of Las Vilas bakery and stare at the display of wedding cakes. Her head would tilt to one side and her breath would steam the window as she watched a squat Mexican woman work behind the counter. On some mornings, the Mexican woman would come outside and press a warm muffin wrapped in wax paper in Cigarette Mary’s hand. She would bow her head and give thanks while the Mexican woman would shoo her away from the window.