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RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
Outside, I signal to Anne, my upstairs neighbor, who has been waiting out in my car, that I'm going to stash my cameras in my trunk. And I am slamming it shut when I see her again: the young woman from Ferg's shop. Still sipping at her Pepsi, she's sitting on a low wall alongside the Diaz Market, a Cuban mom-and-pop store facing Ponce de Leon.
She is, I quickly realize, a prostitute.
My gear stashed, I walk around and climb into my car...
I could take her picture for the book, I think. Well...maybe I could. How would she react, I wonder, if I approached her about it?
I feel nervous about that. Also about launching the book. I hadn't been planning on starting today.
But, George, you've got to start some day....
I look over at Anne. "What do you think, Anne? You think I should see if that prostitute up there will let me take her picture for the book?"
Anne follows my eyes...looks at the woman herself. "Yeah, go ahead," she urges. "Go for it."
And in less than a minute, with two cameras dangling from my neck, I am face to face with the young woman.
She is standing now, leaning against the brick facade of the Market.
"I was wondering...if I could...take your picture."
"What for? " she comes back. "The police?"
"No," I say. "For a book I'm doing on Ponce de Leon. It'll show all the...you know...all the different...types of people along the street."
She doesn't immediately answer. Her eyes drift from me to somewhere across the street.
"Okay," she says then softly. But she still doesn't look at me; her eyes remain focused off into the distance.
And I don't say anything as I lift a camera to my eye, position myself, and frame her in my viewfinder, making sure to get in a billboard towering above her in the background to show that her environment is the street. I squeeze the shutter.
"Your girlfriend doesn't mind?" she asks me, glancing down the hill toward my car.
"She's not my girlfriend," I let her know. And I bring the camera back to my eye, framing just her, waiting for a natural expression.
"How're you doing?" I ask, hoping to put her at ease.
"I've got to go to jail today," is her reply. "If I don't get two hundred dollars by this afternoon."
It's late in the afternoon now, I think to myself.
__________________________________________
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE, a new two-volume ebook containing many, many more photographs and much more detailed text than appears on Flickr:
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
Ronda stands, slipping on her jacket. She says—"I'll walk you out, George...I gotta go out anyway."
In the elevator going down, she's quiet. Until she says: "I hope I don't see Charlie."
"You know," she says, reminding me: "The one I ripped that seven hundred dollars off of. I'm always worried about seeing him."
"Is he the type," I ask, "that might get violent?"
"Somebody told me he would. He has two guns that I know of."
On the sidewalk outside, as I'm saying good-bye, I notice that Ronda is standing in the path of a narrow but brilliant shaft of sunlight. I turn to see its source. The lowering afternoon sun is casting her rays between two tall buildings. Casting them down upon Ronda like a spotlight beamed from the heavens.
My photographer's eye stimulated, I reach quickly for a camera…
I've got to get a picture of Ronda in this light, where all but her is in the shadows...
On the other side of Peachtree, suddenly, are two mounted policemen, their horses' hoof-beats sounding on the pavement.
"Yeah!" Now Ronda gets excited. "Get a picture of me with these cops in it! Hurry!" she commands as I fumble with the f-stops. "Hurry! Take it! Take it!"
I snap the shutter—just in time, I hope—catching Ronda, plus the cops on their horses; and I'm taking more just of Ronda when all at once her face lights up.
Her eyes, gleeful, are fixed on some man about halfway down the block. She skips down the sidewalk to him. I watch as they hug then together walk toward me.
The guy, I see as they come closer, is in his twenties, wearing a made-to-look-like-leather vinyl jacket and a felt hat, its brim turned down.
Ronda does the introductions—quite properly as always. He's Michael Hoffman, a good friend of hers, although she hasn't seen him in ages. And I am George Mitchell, "the one who wrote Ponce de Leon." Michael's into photography himself—he owns a Cannon system, he says—and he's always admired the pictures in Ponce de Leon.
"Well, right now, I'm doing a whole book on Ronda," I tell him.
"Way to go, Ronda!" He grins widely, showing some black and rotting teeth.
But then a shadow crosses her face and her gaze drops downward toward the sidewalk. "Yeah...well..." she surprises me by saying, "I'm not too sure about what I'm representing."
"I love Ronda," says Michael, turning to me. "She's not like the rest of the girls out here." He puts his arm around her. "She's...she's about like a six-year-old. And I've never seen her get angry."
You just don't know, I think to myself, having heard her express such extreme anger about her mother so many times. You just don't know.
As they catch up on each other, I photograph them...
And at one point, Michael, facing Ronda, places his hands on her shoulders...and Ronda's eyes close, and the tension disappears from her face...
Briefly disappears...just as it had a couple of months ago when I placed my hand on her forehead to feel for fever.
Michael leaves, and as I am putting away my cameras, Ronda, watching me, mutters, "You could get a picture of Charlie putting a bullet through my head."
"What?!" I exclaim. "That's not something I want to get a picture of."
"Well," she says, and there's no little laugh, "it could happen."
______________________________________________________Photo and text excerpted from RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
… then get some of her cuddling with Joey and a couple of her other favorites. Finally I suggest that I get some of Melvin and her together.
It's an idea that's quite obviously agreeable to Ronda, since she immediately sidles up seductively to Melvin, who's been observing the photo session from the bathroom doorway. "Why don't I slip into something sexy?" she asks him, whispering alluringly, but loudly enough for me to hear. "Let him get some pictures of us..."
Melvin vetoes the idea with a quick shake of his head...
So with Ronda still in her jeans, the two of them sit on the bed, their arms around each other... And Ronda begins easing her head downward...easing it slowly downward...toward Melvin's lap...
"We need a portrait!" protests Melvin.
"To hell with portraits—" Ronda lifts her head—"we've got enough portraits!" And she presses her mouth to Melvin's and slides in her tongue.
By the time she withdraws it, Melvin is red in the face. "I'm gonna make you smile," he tells her—something she almost never does for pictures.
"You're gonna make me smile?"—she smiles long enough for one snap of the shutter—"then I'm gonna make you kiss me." And falling back on an elbow, she pulls Melvin's lips to hers and gives him a kiss to remember, and then takes the lead—
—and they smooch and neck from one side of the bed to the other.
Excerpted from RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREETWALKER. You may buy volume one of this ebook or read fifty pages for free here:
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUTE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
RONDA: AN INTIMATE PORTRAIT OF A SOUTHERN STREET PROSTITUE
To read about this photo of Ronda, see Volume Two
Here is where you can read a sample of Volume 2 that begins with Ronda's first day in the hospital:
I hope you you will consider purchasing one of the books, which are described on this video:
****************************************************************************
(This photo was taken the day after the following story)
"I'm calling from Grady Hospital," he says. "Ronda's here, and it looks like she's gonna be here for a while."
"They say she's got a staph infection and a heart murmur."
As I'm throwing on some clothes, I wonder:
Should I take my camera? My recorder?
No , I reluctantly but quickly decide. Because if I do, Ronda might think that the only reason I've come is to document the event for the book.
In ten minutes, I'm parked near the county hospital for indigents—a mammoth hulk of a building. Hurrying on foot past the ambulances and police cars jamming the rampway to the emergency room, I look down just in time to avoid stepping in a puddle of blood.
Once inside, the first person I see is Tim. (Note: Tim is a trick of Ronda’s, an educated middle-class social worker who knows Ronda well, and who told me during a long interview that he is in love with her; and, according to Ronda, offered the other day to take her away from it all and move up to the mountains with him.) He's down in a squatting position right outside the doors to the emergency room. His face is buried in his hands.
He looks up at me with eyes wet from tears. He stands and leads me through one of two huge swinging doors into the emergency room.
The place is like a tunnel. A long and windowless tunnel. Lining both walls are stretchers. Every one appears to be occupied, and every one of their occupants appears to be black and elderly.
Nurses and orderlies, doctors and police officers are bustling here and there — mostly in and out of the examining rooms, which run the length of the right-hand side of the corridor.
Tim and I proceed onward...until, about halfway down, Tim stops and points to the open door of one of the examining rooms.
I take a few steps further, peer in, and there see Ronda..
She's in a raised-up hospital bed, an IV protruding from her neck....
She's holding a teddy bear—Joey, her favorite. With both arms, she’s clutching him tightly to her chest.
Also in the room is a man in white— a doctor no doubt. Standing with his back to Ronda, he is writing something... working , I realize at that second, on her chart.
Tim waits outside in the tunnell while I go on in and stand beside Ronda in her bed.
"Hi, George," she says, her voice weak but warm.
I start to hold her hand...hesitate... But then I go ahead: I put my hand over hers, holding it.
"I'm worried about Melvin," she answers. "What's Melvin gonna do?"
"Ronda, I think you should be concerned about yourself right now," I tell her.
I glance at the doctor, his back still to us.
"Dr. Grumwald?" Ronda catches his attention. "I'd like you to meet George Mitchell," she says as he turns. " He's the one I told you about that's writing the book about me."
"What's the situation?" I ask him. He is handsome, tall and curly-haired. In his early thirties.
"All we know for sure right now—" [his demeanor serious]—"is that she has an infection of the skin called cellulitis. Which is usually caused by dirty needles. But she could also have endocarditis. We're running tests for endocarditis now."
As the doctor is talking, Ronda slowly moves her hand from underneath mine. I've held it , I realize, a little too long for her comfort.
I bring out my notepad. "En—do—car—di—tis? What's that?"
"An infection of the heart valve," says Dr. Grunwald. "Bacteria gets on the heart valve, and it sits on the valve and chews it up. It is extremely serious, and if she has it, we might have to do open heart surgery. To replace the heart valve.”
“And I want to impress upon Ronda— and upon you—just how serious the situation is."
"A nurse took a blood sample from here"—she gingerly places her hand over her abdomen—"and she messed up and hit a bone."
"Hell yeah, it's hurting!" her voice picks up energy. "And, goddammit, I want decent medical care! This IV has fallen out of my neck twice ."
"Why did they put it in your neck?"
"Because they said— They said that they couldn't find enough—enough—undamaged—vein in my arm."
"And they've taken so many blood samples, it's a wonder I got any blood left. They ain't taking no more blood from me either. Uh uh. [Shaking her head.] I don't want to see another needle."
Someone in the doorway. Two nurses.
Addressing me, the older one says, "I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to have to leave. We need another blood sample."
Ronda's lips tighten. She sets Joey aside and folds her hands across her lap. She stares at the ceiling.
"Do you want me to stick around?" I ask her.
Keeping her eyes on the ceiling, she gives a quick little nod.
I step out into the hubbub of humanity in the tunnel, where I immediately see Melvin. Talking with him is a young and attractive black woman holding a clipboard with pen poised above it. I check her name tag as I join them. Dr. Wendy Clayton.
"And who," she is asking amicably, "should be called in case of an emergency?"
Melvin sits there appearing uncertain.
Melvin solely responsible for Ronda? Melvin?! In the condition that Ronda is in?
I ask the doctor to put my name down as well.
And with no questions asked, she does; and then moves on, leaving the seat next to Melvin available to me.
"So what happened, Melvin?" I ask, sitting down.
"Well, last night her arm started swelling," he relates. "And then this morning, her leg started swelling too. And she got a real high fever, and she was hurting. But", he says, "she wanted to wait until Tim got off work to go to the hospital, so she'd have a ride here and back. See, she thought that they'd just give her a shot and she could go home—but when we got here, the doctor told her she'd have to stay. And so then she said that since they wouldn't give her anything for pain, she was going to go home and do a Dilaudid."
Melvin appears as unruffled as ever. I, though, need a cigarette and need one desperately.
"Melvin, you wanna go have a cigarette?"
"No, I believe I'll just stick around in here."
Just outside the big swinging doors where I'd originally found Tim squatting, I now find him pacing. He comes over to me as I'm firing up my cigarette.
"Okay, Tim," I say, "let me get your report. What happened?"And pretty soon he’s taking up where Melvin left off…when Ronda announced she was going to leave and get one more shot of Dilaudid…
"And I said to the doctor, I said, 'Doctor, tell her what's gonna happen if she leaves here and doesn't come back!' And he said, 'Well, your arm will puss out, and it'll have to come off. If it doesn't kill you.' And then she was raising hell, raising hell. Big scene, big scene. And she slugged me in the jaw."
"Yeah, she nailed me! Because I wasn't gonna take her anywhere. But finally I said, 'Fuck it! If this is the only way, fine , let's go get high!
"So she got her pill, and she shot herself up, and she shot Melvin up, and we came back here. Came in, and the doctor knew what she had done; he just chewed her ass out good.
"And by this time, man, I though
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