4
She wants to go to the office of Pepco, the electric company, so she can talk to someone about
restoring the electricity; it’s has been off for four months because Rosa Lee has fallen behind in
her payments. Patty has been cooking meals on a neighbor’s stove, and she’s tired of bringing
food back and forth. And now that summer’s almost over, it will be getting dark earlier, and they
will need the lights again.
Rosa Lee pulls from her purse a set of tattered, rolled-up papers, slips off the rubber band and
leaf’s through them. They are her most important papers—her apartment lease, medical records,
Medicaid documents, and bills and letters of all sorts. Rosa Lee hands me the pile. She wants me
to figure out just what is owed on her electricity bill and what is the minimum she must pay to
have the electricity turned back on.
Outside the Pepco building on Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue, S.E., Rosa Lee is eager for me to
come into the office with her. My suit and tie, she believes, might give her greater authority with
the bureaucracy. I tell her that I’m a reporter and can’t get involved in her affairs. But I see from
her puzzled expression that she doesn’t understand what I’m talking about.
I separate her electricity bills from the other papers. Rosa Lee returns the sheaf of papers to her
large pocketbook while holding on tight to the electricity bills.
It’s hard to imagine Rosa Lee having trouble getting someone’s attention if she wants to.
Her face is long and handsome, and she has learned how to smile or cry whenever it’s necessary.
Her hips are broader than they once were, but her 145 pounds settle easily on her 5-foot-1-inch
frame, and she likes to boast that her narrow waist still turns men’s heads. Her hands are firm
and strong, the result of washing countless baskets of laundry on a scrub board when she was a
child. a longtime heroin addict with a long record of arrests for everything from petty theft to