Queen of the Port-a-Potties

I'm standing on the bus gazing out the grimy window. In the florescent light I can see the oily residue of too many hands on the bar that I'm grasping. I thank myself for putting on gloves before getting on. Currently I'm wearing black shoes, a black jacket, a black beanie, black gloves, and blue jeans. The snow which fell all night has become a gray sludge blanketing everything outside. I've learned to assimilate myself during my time here: a black wardrobe and a closed mouth are confrontation-free.
Finally the brakes creak as the bus lurches to a halt. Hoping that this is where we want to be, I hop off first just before a few locals. We've been following the directions closely enough, and this seems to be right. No one argues with me, leaving any potential blame for an unintentional detour solely on me. I have to be careful not to slip going down the stairs leading into the tunnel. Homeless children lobby for our attention in the dimly lit subterranean refuge. Handouts. Any change? Just a few rubles? Vendors sell their shampoos, calling cards, magazines, and candy at increasingly lower prices through windows lining the walls. Another slippery stairway signals that we have at last crossed the enormous street.
We're running early and are now confidently on the right track. I see a large shopping center across the plaza which probably offers some additional warmth and accordingly inform everyone. After crossing the street I notice that there are two port-a-potties on the corner. Upon closer examination I learn differently. Inside one an elderly woman has created a home for herself; she has a small recliner which doubles as a bed, a plethora of blankets, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a small stove. She is the owner of both port-a-potties. One she has fashioned into a home while the other is her lone source of income. Half a ruble buys you a visit to her john. A resourceful but ultimately miserable way to eke a living off the streets of Moscow. I can't help but stare. She must think I'm considering a visit to her port-a-potty because she begins to wave me over as if saying that's it's currently free for my business. The idea inexplicably repulses me as I turn away. I feel the urge to escape her vision.
The shops are obviously for the wealthy; it's clean inside, well lit, well heated, and security guards stand as sentinels in the vestibule. At this time we know to speak up in our American English. Being American gives us the right to be in high-end stores: we surely have money. The girls step onto the escalators and begin their ascent toward a few clothing stores of which I've never heard. Having reached the top floor a bit later I find a bench. This eastern flank of the roof is glass. I find myself staring again down at the babushka and her port-a-potty home. There's not a chance that she can see me here, but I still feel a pang of guilt. How is it that I, due simply to the language that I speak, am allowed in this beautiful building while she sits there in her plastic hut only a few meters away?
The home is a man's castle. Home is where the heart is. One man's garbage is another man's treasure.