The Purple Handbag

Olivia Malcom loathed everything about her job, especially the fact that she had to have one in the first place. When she was married to Harold, she never dreamed the day would come when she’d be reduced to this. If it hadn’t been for a few affairs with totally worthless creatures, she could’ve come away from that marriage with money. But Harold had been heartless and now she was forced to humiliate herself among such common women as those seated around her.

What was worse, it was she who, because of the ridiculous little matter of seniority, was expected to do everything menial. Olivia, make the coffee. Olivia, take the mail to the post office. Olivia, water the plants. Olivia this Olivia that. Today, being Thursday, it was her duty to take the money they’d collected to the lottery machine and punch in a few winning numbers, ha ha.

Ha ha right. If she did punch any winning numbers today – or any other Thursday – she would kiss that little job and every one of their asses good friggin bye.

She grabbed her coat and her new purple handbag that everyone had given her such a hard time about. Well, it matched her shoes perfectly and what would any of those people know about style, anyway? She pursed her lips and sucked in her breath, remember how they’d teased her about it, and huffed out of the office.

“Olivia, bring back a winner!” someone called after her. She could hear muffled laughter.

Fly a kite, she thought, but said nothing except to let out an ugly yelp because just then her left heel caught on the mat and she nearly fell down the stairs and killed herself. She should sue these people!

Five o’clock traffic threatened to crush poor Olivia as she made her way to the lottery machine. The jackpot was large, and a long line of rude people preceded her. Not one offered to let an old woman in. Huffily, she marched to the end of the line.

Eventually, it was her turn. She took out her list and began punching the first of ten tickets, including three random and her own. Each woman used a different set of numbers but everyone planned to share the jackpot if they won it. Olivia knew that wouldn’t happen, for she would be on her way to Mexico with all the money before anyone could shout Hallelujah!

Wouldn’t you just know a gang of ruffians would be on her bus again! Green hair, blue hair, holes punched everywhere even through tongues, disgusting little rings attached. Spiked collar around the neck like a dog, for crying out loud. She despised young people today. Not an ounce of decency among them. The one with safety pins in his ears jumped up and gave her his seat. How disgusting, having to sit in the same seat as trash like that, but Olivia was tired. She glared at the boy, studied the seat, and finally, with a shudder, plopped down. She set her purple handbag on her lap and frowned remembering the comments it had received.

“Thank you, too,” he said. She did not give him the satisfaction that she noticed. Piece of trash. Hell would be filled with his kind.

“Nice old lady,” blue hair said to pin ears.

“Leave her alone. She don’t know better.”

That got her attention. “Doesn’t,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t know better.”

The freaks whooped and punched each other, laughing. Olivia’s face burned. “Why don’t you just….just shut up?” she managed.

The bus had stopped and someone was getting off. Blue hair grabbed Olivia’s new handbag and held it above his head. “This is me shutting up,” he yelled and tossed the bag to dog collar, who pitched it out the closing door.

Olivia tried to get up. “Stop this bus!” she screamed. “My handbag…” but the bus jerked and Olivia Malcom toppled to the floor, exposing puckered, white flesh. Pin ears tried to help her to her feet, but she shook him off. “Get away!”

When the bus finally stopped, she limped off, but the purple handbag was nowhere to be seen. People walked or loitered as though nothing had happened. Her handbag, her handbag! Oh, what should she do? She sat on a curb and cried until a police officer helped her home.


“Hey, Gracie!” Old Jack shouted as he joined her. “Nice purse you got there, honey.”

The bag lady smiled and adjusted the purple strap over her shoulder. She did look fine, didn’t she? As usual, the two stopped at the bins outside Saint Laura’s Hospital and retrieved their supper. Thursday always meant turkey sandwiches. The nice thing about Saint Laura’s was the kitchen help left the food in neat little packages when they tossed out the trash. Old Jack and Gracie stood by the dumpster and ate their sandwiches. There was plenty today, so after supper they took all they could carry.

“I see you went shopping today,” Old Jack said, laughing loudly, as they walked back to Tent Town. He knew that Gracie got all of her things from curbside trash or the bins. She was a beautiful mix of flowered cotton, shining taffeta and holey wool, and layers of it for Gracie wore everything she owned, always.

She smoothed her stubby fingers over the shining purple purse and smiled shyly.

“You better put that strap over your head,” Old Jack said, “otherwise somebody’s gonna grab it.”

Gracie did as she was told. When they arrived at Tent Town, which was just a few make-shift shelters near the bridge, someone hooted,”Woo hoo! Look at our Gracie!”

Some children ran up and held out dirty little hands. Old Jack reached into Gracie’s cart for sandwiches and little cartons of dated milk, which wasn’t soured yet. The children grabbed their food and ran away to eat. Old Jack set out the rest of the food so people could get it.

The new young couple picked up sandwiches. “Nice purse,” the man said.

“You didn’t get that outta no trash bin,” his girlfriend added, eyeing the purse as she opened her sandwich wrapper.

Gracie held the purse close. Old Jack hovered near. Able bodied young folks who sat by the freeway holding up signs that made false claims would be just as likely to steal from anyone.

“What’s in it?” the young man asked.

“Nothing!” Gracie lied, and leaned against Old Jack for protection. That night, Gracie and Old Jack slept close, protecting the purple purse between them.

In the morning, they went in search of breakfast. McDonald’s was a good place to find leftovers. If people left cups on the table, they’d get hot coffee from the serve-yourself pot and often they’d pick up an abandoned newspaper.

Today they stood in line like everyone else and paid for their food. Afterward, Jack left for his daily round of phone booths and ash trays while Gracie strolled over to the park to see if her friends were out. She wanted to show off her new purse.

“Here comes the bag lady,” whispered Nella Mae. “I hope she’s had a bath at last.”

“And where would she do that?” Lou answered, leaning close. Then in a louder voice, “Good morning, Gracie.”

Gracie stood in front of them, leaning at an angle so that the purple purse could be seen.

“What’s this?” asked Lou.

Gracie smiled and patted the treasure that hung around her neck. “It’s new,” she said, watching their faces for reaction.

“Come over here, Gracie.” Nella Mae stood to make room for the bag lady to sit on the park bench next to Lou, then backed away, holding her breath.

Gracie sat down and opened the purse. “Money,” she pronounced, grandly.

“How about identification?” asked Nella Mae, stepping carefully forward just a pace, screwing up her face. Gracie snapped it closed.

“May I look?” asked Lou. Nella Mae stepped back to watch.

Reluctantly, Gracie slipped the strap off her neck and handed the purse to her friend.

“Someone lost this,” said Lou.

“No!” Gracie cried. “It flew down!”

“From where?” Nella Mae inquired, staying well back.

“Out of the sky. From God. I caught it!”

“Oh, Gracie,” said Lou. “Is God’s name Olivia Malcom, do you think?”

The bag lady looked confused. “What?”

“That’s what is written on the lining. Olivia Malcom it says and there’s a phone number, too.” Gracie’s face fell and she reached for the purse.

“Write it down,” coaxed Nella Mae. “Isn’t there a pen in there? I see some papers, write it down, Lou.”

There was a stack of little papers with numbers on them. Lou took one, wrote on it and tucked it into her pocket. Then she gave the purse to Gracie. “You have to give this back,” she explained.

“No.” Gracie clutched the purse to her bosom.

“Yes, Gracie. It belongs to this Olivia Malcom. I’ll phone her.”

Without a word, Gracie emptied the contents of the purse into Lou’s lap, draped the purple strap over her neck and left, pushing her heavy cart back toward the park’s entrance.

“Gracie!” called Lou, but the bag lady did not turn back.

Friday evening the telephone rang and a voice Olivia didn’t recognize told her that her handbag had been found by someone named Gracie who lived in Tent Town. Gracie had kept the handbag, but the contents were safe. Olivia was tired and her body hurt from the fall she’d taken, so she said to have a cab driver deliver it. Probably not a smart move, she thought, to give a stranger one’s address, but that was the best she could do tonight.

“Tell the cab driver he’d better not steal any money,” she said, “and you’d better not either,” she warned before hanging up.

Within an hour a sack containing the contents of her handbag was delivered. She demanded that the driver wait while she took inventory. She sighed and shook her head when she realized that one of the lottery tickets – her own, in fact – as well as three dollars and ninety six cents was missing. The bag lady must have stolen it, she muttered, as she slapped the ten dollar fare into the waiting driver’s hand before slamming the door. Tomorrow she’d find Gracie The Bag Lady and demand her money, her ticket and her handbag!

Saturday. She hobbled painfully out of bed and nursed her wounds, wondering if she could sue the transit company for the terrible fall she’d taken even though she could produce no witnesses and the driver had not seen the incident. Why was life so unfair to an old woman, she wondered. And then she remembered the lottery tickets.

Searching the newspaper, she discovered that the grand prize had been won. She read off the numbers, and fainted. When she awoke on the floor, she realized that not only had her very own numbers won the jackpot, but the ticket with those numbers was in her purple handbag. She would find that bag lady if it was the last thing she ever did! Meanwhile, she had a flight to Mexico held in her name.

By Friday evening, Old Jack had a dollar and sixty cents in his pocket gleaned from phone booth change. His little pouch contained fresh cigarette butts. He’d spend some time this evening scraping them into a little pile so he and Gracie could enjoy a smoke together tomorrow. He’d picked up some odds and ends of paper to roll their cigarette. It was their treat. They’d go to the park, roll a cigarette and share a Saturday smoke.

Gracie was even more quiet than usual as they foraged at Saint Laura’s. Tuna on Friday. One good thing, there was orange juice in little cartons for the kiddies. Old Jack loved to surprise the children. “I had to give it back,” Gracie said, as they nibbled their supper.

Jack saw the purse draped around her neck. “Give what back, honey?”

She opened the purse and he saw that it was empty. “They said I had to give the purse, too.” There were tears in Gracie’s eyes as she caressed the shiny purple bag. Jack kept on eating his sandwich but his face turned hard.

“Who said that?” he demanded.

“Lou and Nella Mae. They took the phone number. They called Olivia Malcom.”

That name sounded familiar. Where had he heard it? “Olivia Malcom,” he repeated. “Who is she?”

“The purse. It’s hers!”

“I wonder where I heard that name,” Old Jack pondered, scraping a rough hand over his scratchy chin. “Someplace, that’s for sure.”

Tears slipped down Gracie’s cheeks and he wiped them with his shirt. “We’ll have our smoke tomorrow, Gracie,” he offered, to comfort her. Gracie managed a little smile and blew her nose on his shirt tail. “That’s my girl,” Old Jack said.

Saturday, the two sat side by side on the park bench nearest the water. Gracie watched Old Jack prepare their cigarette. “What’s this?” he said, examining one of the papers and then remembered where he’d seen the name Olivia Malcom. “This is the name, right here,” he said. It was written on the back of a lottery ticket he’d found at a phone booth. Let’s have ourselves a little smoke on Olivia Malcom, shall we?” He bellowed at his own joke. Gracie snickered and nodded her head.

Carefully, Old Jack spread tobacco across the ticket, then for strength added a couple more pieces of paper, moistened the whole thing with his tongue, rolled it up and sealed it tightly.

“You!” a voice screeched. “Bag lady!” They turned to see a small, mean-looking woman hobbling toward them. “That’s my handbag you’re wearing!”

Old Jack stood. Gracie noticed the purple shoes. “Olivia,” she said sadly, taking the strap from her neck.

“Give me that!” Olivia Malcom grabbed the purse and opened it. “Where’s my ticket?” she demanded. “Give me my ticket, you thief!”

Old Jack lit the handmade cigarette and smiled. “Care for a smoke, Olivia?” he asked.

“You are disgusting! WHERE IS MY TICKET?”

Old Jack inhaled, then handed the little cylinder to Gracie. “I believe it was left in a phone booth,” he said to Olivia, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, “when that lady phoned you.” Gracie nodding her agreement, closed her eyes and savored a long, pleasant drag.

“Oh, my god!” screamed Olivia Malcom, throwing the handbag on the ground. “It was the jackpot!” She hurried out of the park in search of phone booths.

Old Jack smiled at Gracie. “This here is a mighty expensive smoke, honey,” he said. When they had finished, Old Jack picked up the purple purse, wiped it off with his shirt sleeve, and arranged it lovingly over his sweetheart’s shoulder.

“No one, not even a millionaire, has had such a smoke as we had today, Gracie.”

Sending one last thin trail of smoke toward the sky, the bag lady beamed into her hero’s face. As they strolled together back to Tent Town, Old Jack pushed Gracie’s cart while her stubby fingers gently caressed the purple purse that was hers forever to wear.