The 'poor' ....

Some time passed and I had yet to gather enough to pay for a decent meal. Traffic seemed to thin in front of my eyes, as my stomach acknowledged the desperate situation with its all too familiar motions. As I walked up and down the sidewalk, I glared at the uncomfortable forms hiding in their cars. I couldn’t help but want to scream for them to take notice of me. My pride, the only thing keeping me together as my body began to shiver with the setting of the sun. Defeated, I turned towards the dark shadows of the bridge, the whole time dreaming of the sound of break pads. As a dream I faded into the night. Out of sight, out of mind.

It wasn’t uncommon for that to happen and I should have simply found a cigarette and fed my hunger with nicotine. The thought had crossed my mind a few times, but for some reason I took comfort in my state. Instead, I fed my hunger with disappointment. The system has let me down, and while it was nothing new, I was tired of it. Who was I to be in this position? Why am I here suffering while that old bastard gets to eat well and rock himself to sleep with cheap liquor? As I laid there I dreamed of drowning myself sorrows and about not having to deal with the realities that tomorrow would bring. It felt like an eternity but eventually, just like the day before, the sun rose.

The shadows were too familiar, so after arguing with myself I decided to take a seat at the bus bench ways down the road. The streets were empty, aside from a few locals trying to tow a stalled pick-up with a rusted Ford Escort. The sun rested a ways off the horizon, which made me figure that either I missed the morning rush, or it was Saturday. Either way it entertained me to think how time passed without leaving any impressions as to the week’s progress. I tried to think back to the previous weekend, but the only thing that came to mind were side profiles of faces that were probably having a warm family breakfast somewhere in the suburbs.

The buses brought only two or three people per stop. Each set ignored me as I tried to introduce myself by asking for the time. These people weren’t stupid, and knew quite well that as soon as they told me it was eleven o’clock I would ask for money, food or, ideally, a smoke. My tar stained fingers shook as I smelt the tobacco emanating from the new arrival. After eagerly quizzing all the passengers, I found myself facing the operator of the machine, whose big cigar mocked me as I looked up. Before I could ask for the time, the man reached into a small bag on the ground and threw one of his tasty treats my way.

Class exercise:

We were given a list of opening sentences and asked to pick one. Using this sentence, we were instructed to write three paragraphs describing the plot of the story, the character and the setting. After looking them over, here's what I came up with.

"I am sitting over coffee and cigarettes at my friend Rita's, and I'm telling her about it."

Plot:
After trying to hold on to his nationality, the character, a foreign born U.S. citizen, is trying to evaluate the construct of his identity. Weighing the worth of his ancestry against his own piece of mind brings up big questions of what's important. He enjoys the novelty of his person but is tortured by an inability to meet his inflated standards for an immigrant.

Character:
The character in this story is a young male, eighteen years of age that just graduated high school. He moved to the country at a very young age and his family has slowly worked their way up to be a productive members of the middle class. Meanwhile, the character refuses to accept his new lifestyle. His attempts to reach a balance are thwarted by the struggle between the ease of his new life and the need to be understood by those around him, two things he doesn't believe can coexist.

Setting:
The story takes place on and around inner city streets, where the character originally grew up. The population consists of Middle Eastern and European immigrants and their descendants. Many of the buildings in the area have been victim to urban decay. Store fronts have become a canvas for the local graffiti artists and local gangs marking their turf. Regardless of the area, the character finds him-self frequently returning here to escape his suburban life and to find understanding in his friend Rita.

After doing this assignment, I'm almost interested in continuing the story. It's nice to have the opening sentence complete for you. That, however, may be left for a spare time. In the meanwhile, I need to focus on my main project. If you haven't read it yet, give the following links a glance in order. I post up paragraphs as I write them so there should be a fair amount still coming. Look for posts labeled "Through his eyes".

Main Project:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Comments and suggestions are more than welcome, so please leave a note. :-P

Silent Memories

It is as though all of our encounters were silent, and yet all of my memories of him resurrect feelings of joy. As a little boy, I always felt safe and peaceful when in his presence. This is a feeling that I miss. We lived "in the moment", although truth be told, he lived in what could have been a ten foot by eight foot room. In this room there was a bed with a small table next to it. One wall supported a shelf and two others held the corner of another table. Each piece of furniture housed various old and broken objects, much like the bed that housed him. To me he was a saint, complete with a smoke ring halo, who would make me eggnog and roast sunflower seeds in my blissfully silent memories. I only remember one conversation with him, which has the power to bring tears to my eyes. For the sake of omitting a lengthy explanation, consider it a seven year reunion. His voice was sincerely happy; mine was distant and nervous. If I could go back, I would have made that moment count. I would have let him know that regardless of the life he led, he will always be my saint. Ironically, I find myself staring at a charm: "St. Michael, Pray for us." Perhaps to him, I was his saint, praying for his soul, as I know he is looking over mine.

...cardboard sign in hand.

It was a sort of ritual now. Each day I found myself under the same bridge, smoked the same tobacco and saw the same light. Some days,this light was bright and others it would just barely shine over my inadequacies. This light was one of the brighter ones. Seeing that man reminded me of my own past. During my first year on the streets I was the same way. I sheltered a sense of injustice and pride deep within me. Feeling defeated and hopeless, I would sit at the corner and torture myself. Each night, I ate the cheapest meal I could find and chased it with the most expensive whiskey that I could afford. In the mornings I prayed for it to end; the injustice, the torment - the headache.

It may have taken a year, but eventually I realized that self pitty was worthless. Around this time I began to observe my fellow street dwellers, watching as they eyed the occupants of the vehicles unfortunate to get trapped at the light. Many would pretend to have idle conversations with their passengers. Others would fumbled with their radio controls. Finally, those least creative were hell bent on believing that if they stared hard enough, they could will the light green. As the saying goes, "out of sight, out of mind". However at each turn of traffic there would be at least one person who would forget to be ignorant. These folk would accidentally make eye contact, and as though they lost some children's game, would pay their dollar fee.


To me, it all seemed like a con game, where everyone knew their role and played it out flawlessly, but there was always someone new, who would hang their head and rely on sheer pitty to bring money. Those that would close their eyes and wait for the squeal of brake pads before throwing an upward gaze in hopes of seeing a hand out. Silly bastards would last as long as their stomachs remained quiet. First sign of hunger would send bottles flying and blue lights flashing. These 'poor' would enjoy a warm night in lock up while I had to replace the bucket and sign that the police confiscated.

continue...

The cigarette, that some sympathetic commuter shared with me, was burning down. I always enjoyed the last few hits and this was no exception. For the moment, I forgot about the old man and about myself. Instead, I focused on the sounds and smells around me. It was a typical business day rush hour. The air was thick with exhaust and sweet burning motor oil. Random horns gave variety to the mundane everyday sounds. It was an oddly warm day, promoting the locals to open their windows and blast their stereos, adding additional life to the streets. My meditation was broken by the burning sensation given off by the cigarette as it burned to its core. I tossed the burnt filter aside and woke up to a bright world.

Suddenly, the old man was no so old anymore. He couldn't have been more than a few months older than my thirty seven years. His face appeared grateful as he pocketed a generous five dollar donation. Apparently he reached his reserve, since he soon rested his cardboard sign against the busted bucket on which he was sitting and went on his way. I was comforted by this image, as it gave promise that I may yet be able to afford to fill my increasingly hungry form. I arose from my shadowed shelter under the bridge and, once traffic began to move again, took my rightful spot on the now unoccupied corner, cardboard sign in hand.

Beginnings...

I eyed him like a critical pupil, disgusted by his pitiful existence. Clearly, this man had no will left in him. He simply basked in his own sorrows. Some would understandably feel some form of sympathy for him, partially rolling down their windows and holding bills through the small crack. The pale old man would spring to life, just like a whore in a peep show, earning her pay. Perhaps there is some romantic attraction which brings the money from the north. The attraction is the facade that this man will be saved by someones charitable three dollar donation.

----to be continued-----