To the editors:
Augghhh! Laurel DiGangi, you weren’t the only one! Your “Margery” [“First Person: A Waif at My Door,” February 26] got me at work (in a River North gallery). Then–incredibly–she turned up that night on a friend’s porch (in Wrigleyville), where she’d just gotten $30 from him! Same story, same cigarettes, same teeth, same trip to the Jewel, same goat’s milk. Same feeling she was lying, but obviously in trouble, so what the hell. That she could be a junkie was something we didn’t consider. We’re now wondering how many other Reader readers (liberals that we are) also fell for it.
This woman obviously missed a great career as something: what initiative, what acting ability, what perception, what guts! And what a shame! The question that now haunts me is whether a woman who was really in that situation would do as she did. It seemed so possible, our society being what it is today, that someone could find herself totally alone and desperate in a strange city, with no one but strangers to ask for help.