The Bummer
I remembered while looking at this picture some of the first impressions I had upon first arriving at Deadwood. A good percentage of the residents made no bones about dressing for public consumption. The women have their 'face' on, and the men have their hair combed.
'I,' was one of the first 'Ladies' I noticed that had 'it' going on. Perfectly coifed, matching scarf, make-up, and purse, she is ready to jump in the old Roadmaster and head down the shore for a sea cruise, or out to the Island for a house party.
Of course, reality is different now. 'I' has probably not seen past the front door of Deadwood for some time. The smoke in her hand is probably out of a carton that I placed at the front desk for those 'left behind' ones; those whose relatives 'forget' to resupply Grandma's cigs at regular intervals.
The walker in the foreground belies her easy confidence. She shuffles back and forth accross the courtyard, eyeing the other residents, looking for a soft touch in the 'spare smoke' department. You can hear someone moan, "Here she comes".
She'll sidle up real sweet with a big smile and wait about thirty seconds before popping the question. The others call her "the bummer." When she's fixed, she doesn't talk to anyone.
