One's Misery, Another's Freedom, Part 1 (Working Title)Apr 02 '03 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Crappy title, as usual. Please, leave a flood of comments. Remember, I'm vain -- so I enjoy the praise (or even the criticism!) It was the coldest day of the coldest of seasons. The air had teeth that no flawed human eyes could see, but all flawed human flesh could feel, as it was being bitten mercilessly. The wind was rough, shaking the fragile branches, reverberating upon the solid structures that formed the downtown core of Charlottetown. The wind was trapped between the rows of structures, was swimming along the narrow streets like a tidal wave, and insistent on making others feel it’s misery. It clawed at the faces of every person foolhardy enough to embrace it. One of the streets contained a few churches, as well as a recreation center. Next to those, was the local food bank. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, many people who felt the crushing defeat of their lives had little choice but to frequent this place, to be served by helpful, sympathetic, guilty volunteers. This morning’s meal was nothing fancy. A small bowl of cereal, a piece of slightly undercooked toast. At least the cup of coffee was able to warm the body for a brief time, before the body returned to the street. And at least the food was solid. It wasn’t garbage, it wasn’t stolen. It was the genuine article. A few dozen people sat on the wooden chairs, by the wooden tables, with those plates and bowls and cups. The people ate, they talked amongst each other.... although the topics rarely ventured beyond the here and now........ “Awfully cold today.”, said one woman to another. “Yes it is, Nancy -- or so I heard on the radio.” “You wouldn’t need to hear it on the radio to know that, Agnes.”, Nancy grinned. “I haven’t been outside to find out -- I slept on the floor last night.” “Here?”, lowering her voice, believing Agnes to have broken in. “How did you manage to get inside?” “Oh, they just let me. Nobody minded me.” “It’s supposed to be this way outside for the rest of the week, they say. Minus forty wind-chill -- coldest winter in years. Sure that nobody will mind you for the rest of the week?” “They tell me that there’s nothing valuable in this building -- except the food. And it’s been so long since I’ve cooked anything that even if I wanted to steal anything, I’d have to wait until morning so somebody can cook it for me!”, she laughed hoarsely. “.... at least you have an apartment and a place to eat, sometimes.....” “Just barely, Agnes.”, Nancy lamented. “I’m hoping that everyone will keep the Liberals in office in the next election. Every other political party tells us that we ought to give up on unemployment insurance and welfare, and look for a job. The Liberals have it right, however. Bribe us with our own tax money and we’ll keep them in office. ” “It’s great to be able to rip off the government. “, Agnes said. “Beats working!”, she said. “Where could I work?” “The same places where I could work.” “Well, then,”, grinning knowingly. “..... we’ll be here for many years to come, right?” “You’re right.”, Agnes snickered. “So what cereal are you eating there?” “Shreddies.” “I’ve got Shredded Wheat.” “What’s the difference, I wonder.” “The Shreddies are like many little pieces of cardboard. The Shredded Wheat is one huge piece of cardboard.” “I’ve always liked Frosted Flakes -- very surgury, very tangy.” “Really? Yea, I thought it was okay, but I liked Rice Krispies better.” “Rice Krispies??? Next you’re going to be telling me that you’re going to be eating Corn Flakes.” “Well, that stuff doesn’t decay your teeth, and I can’t afford a dentist. I couldn’t even afford a pair of pliers so I could do the job myself.” Agnes mindlessly slid her tongue across the bottom of her upper set of teeth. Dry, rough, layered texture. * Breakfast had long since past, and many of the people that ate at the food bank had left to either their run-down apartment dwellings, or to the streets, to hide under any form of shelter from the cold. Agnes followed their lead, and left the food bank, to wander around the streets of Charlottetown. Every day she tried to walk in a different path, to make herself believe that she, impoverished and homeless, experienced more of this big vast world, every day. Yesterday, she saw all the houses and businesses along Fitzroy Street, and Hillsborough Street. This morning she would take the opposite direction...... Sydney Street was a one-way street, and a very narrow one at that. There was barely enough room for a car to travel the pavement, as many parked cars lined the sides of the road, yet it never did matter to Agnes, seeing as she never owned a car, or even got a driver’s license. She used to live in one of these buildings, back in the days when the rent was barely affordable as opposed to completely unaffordable. At the time, she was on welfare -- eight-hundred plus dollars a month, just enough to pay the rent and to skip few meals. Her lifestyle received a fatal blow when the landlord decided to push up the rent.... ....... he posted the announcement on the wall in the main hallway. In two months, the rent will increase, from four-fifty to six-hundred.......... One hundred and fifty more dollars to pay for the jerk’s mortgage. One hundred and fifty dollars that could have went to food, clothes, bills and other frivolities. .... I should have ripped that piece of paper right off the walls... nobody else would have known about the increase... maybe he would have forgotten about it...... ..... why raise the rates? Just to buy fancy new appliances, to replace original equipment that was more than enough for the people who lived in this apartment. Just to replace the bland, sickly carpets with bright, pure fabrics, even though, for some people, a carpet is just a thing you walk over when walking from one room to the next. Just to satisfy his ego, to make his dwellings look more attractive to rich tenants...... She had no choice but to leave, to be forced out. She was unemployable. She had few friends. She didn’t know of any cheaper places in town. She lived out on the street, with only herself and the clothes on her back. And her final welfare check......... ......... a few hundred dollars. She had nowhere to go, couldn’t afford an apartment. The money would be a waste, if it just sat inside her pocket. Might as well have some fun with it, she wasn’t going anywhere important. So she went to a bootlegger on Dorchester Street. These secretive businesses were frequent in the more impoverished portions of town, and this particular one was a favorite of hers. It wasn’t a legitimate bar, in form or in style, by any means. Legitimate bars and taverns weren’t her thing. They weren’t frequented by her type of people, and their doors closed too early. Not everybody’s drinking ceased at two in the morning. The bootlegger on Dorchester did all his business in his house, on the second floor. The house itself was very old, paint chipping away from the sides, unable to keep heat inside itself. During the winter, it was wise to keep your jacket on when you drank. Well, after a while you would have been too drunk to care about the cold, and by the time you realized it was cold again, you would probably have been back at your home, wherever that was. Everybody in the “real” bars were young and fresh-faced, and drank fancy, wimpy drinks, with fruit and other garbage in them. What happened to real alcohol? The real stuff that actually did something to your system? The moonshine that the bootlegger came up with was brutal to the taste, but the effect afterwards was more powerful than any fruit drink with a sour aftertaste. Wasn’t that the whole point of going out to a place that served alcohol? Everybody else in this province did it, why stand outside like an outcast? Sure, the next morning you’d wake up with an extra layer of misery encasing her soul, numbing her fragile organs -- but that’s just the price you pay for living in the world, isn’t it? She gladly paid the price, for the next few weeks. It was fantastic. For once in her life, she was unimpeded -- she was able to indulge in her wishes. Occasionally, however, she was completely out of her mind, staggering down the street, hangover piled upon hangover. When the sun beat down on her too hard, and she had to cool off, she wobbled into a door, any door. Might have been a door to a clothing store, a jewelry shop, a restaurant. Didn’t really matter much to her. Although a few minutes later, she felt the roughness of the sidewalk again. She had felt someone grip at her body and push it back to the heat of the sun, all to the shame and embarrassment to many spectators, although she was too clouded to notice those eyes. Sure, it wasn’t noble... but she was so intoxicated that the memories were foggy. She didn’t feel too upset. But the money soon ran out. And she had nowhere to go to. Weeks disappeared, to be replaced by different weeks. Agnes was dispassionate about her dump of a home, and she soon learned to be dispassionate about her new home, the wide expanse of the streets. Living day after day after night after night, begging for money, sleeping at shelters, hiding behind buildings, were her activities. She didn’t wish for this life, but the wish came true, nevertheless. Yet, seeing these buildings again brought up long-repressed memories. She began to pine for the ability to walk inside her building, as if it were that long-ago era. She looked up to the window that used to be hers, in Apartment Two....... She noticed, however, that there was a cat inside that apartment, standing on the windowsill. The cat appeared well-kept and taken care of. Clearly, the apartment had been replaced. She could have been daring, though. She could have just said to hell with it, and opened the front door. She could have entered Apartment 2, knocked on the door, ask to be let in..... “May I come in?”, would be the first utterance from her mouth, to whomever answered the door. The strange man would have stared at this stranger, trying to guess where he’s seen her before. Surely, he must have, unless this person had the wrong apartment. “..... who... are you?” She would have stood, her eyes shifting around, picking up pieces of the room, absorbing the peculiar texture. The size and shape of the rooms looked familiar, but everything else was not. It was as if she had been witness to an alternative universe, or, more accurately, an event where someone had taken over her living space without her permission, and filled it with his own life. .... wow, he had some good stuff. I never had anything like that...... “I used to live here....”, she would say. “You... used to live here?”, the man would have said, surprised. “The rent’s six hundred dollars a month -- you don’t look as if you could afford to pay even a tenth of that.” Agnes might have staggered by the doorway, her lack of words crippling her whole frame. “I... I....used to pay for it. Before they kicked me out..... by putting up the rent.” Agnes would have expected the man to condescend to her. “well, if you could get yourself a decent job.... wear some decent clothes... take a shower once in a while..... then you wouldn’t be out on the street.” Pause, just to be sure. “... you are out on the street, aren’t you......?” Agnes would have loved to lash out, to say some of the most vicious phrases known to humankind. But she was only someone with a seventh-grade education. All of her vicious phrases would have been curse words, repeated frequently. “I can’t find a job. Nobody will hire me.”, she would have said, eventually, in desperation. “A complete disaster you’ve made of yourself, that’s why..... probably haven’t finished school, right? Did you ever consider holding down a job for any length of time? Couldn’t pay attention, I suppose... too busy thinking about drinking with your friends at the bars. I am not going to feel sorry for you. All these homeless people... it’s embarrassing to the rest of us. You, staggering down the sidewalk, as if you were shell-shocked from the Vietnam War or something... they made the mess of their lives, not us. Don’t blame “society”, don’t blame “capitalism”.... not as if you’d understand what that was all about.....” No, she wouldn’t understand. All she would understand is that she doesn’t have what he had. Unfair. “That’s not fair!”, she would cry. “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault!” The man would sneer contemptuously. “Not your fault! I smell a shower that hasn’t been taken in weeks. I smell liquor that’s more closer to poison than alcohol. I see a person who doesn’t even try to better herself. You can’t blame anyone.... except yourself!” Agnes would feel a trembling rage. Her brain wasn’t advanced enough to find a verbal escape. She could only plan a physical one. She walks inside the apartment, disregarding the renter of the room. “Okay, I’m taking over.” “What?” “I’m going to sleep on the bed -- I’ve not slept in a real bed in a year. I’d like to see what it feels like....” She would remove the freshly pressed bed sheets away from the bed, leaving only the less elegant sheets beneath. She cumbersomely moves herself, to rest upon the mattress. “I’m going to have to throw away all those blankets now, or at least boil them for six hours -- God knows where you’ve been.” “On the street, is all..... don’t worry, I can keep them. I’m always in need of some extra blankets.” The man would roll his eyes in frustration. “You’re getting out of here!”, he would finally bellow. “Get your hands off me, you as*hole!” “Intelligent speaker, you are!”, he shot back, as he would pull her body from the bed. She would make no effort to fight back. Her body would fall on the floor with an embarrassing thump. “Jesus, you’re just like a sack of rocks.”, he’d grunt, as he drug Agnes away from the bedroom. “Goddamn it! Get your f*cking paws off of me”, and more guttural phrases would come from her throat, as she would have an adult version of a baby’s temper tantrum. All of the curse words were used, but most of the elegant ones were dismissed, or, more likely, never considered. The cat on the windowsill would meow frantically, perturbed by this strange presence. The man would finally get the weak frame out into the hallway. Agnes was still screaming, as if this man had robbed her of everything she had. “Now get out of here before I call the police.”, he would say, before shutting the door. He would have probably wished he phoned them regardless........ ............... she turned the corner of Sydney Street and saw the more lively traffic of Queen Street. Life continued despite her. Life continued unconcerned, despite her fevered imagination. * An errant sound from a passing car radio told her that the time was close to noon. She realized that her body was growing chilled again, and that she would like a coffee, to warm herself up, to jolt her bloodstream enough to get her through the afternoon. At least the local Tim Horton’s on Kent Street had no issues with her presence in the building -- --- as long as she had some money. Many quaint, locally-owned businesses littered Queen street. Casually, patrons set out to go inside one door, or exit another. They seemed to go about the motions of thousands of others every day. She wouldn’t even attempt mimicking the status quo, as she would have probably been kicked out -- past experience had taught her that. Others had no intent of entering the buildings, but remained with the fresh air streaming into their lungs. That would include a man walking in the opposite direction of Agnes -- walking toward her line of sight. “Awfully cold out there today. I forgot my gloves, I wasn’t very bright......” She needed to deny the truth that this conversation would be out of context to this stranger, who probably hasn’t seen this person before in his life. The stranger frowned at her words, for a fleeting second, before feeling his eyes wander, as his brain asked if perhaps there was an unseen person that she was talking to. His ears, however, could not hear a response. She grunted, quietly, in confusion, as her walk slowed slightly. A stealth attack. “..... you don’t have some change on you, sir?”, she asked the stranger, who did not slow his pace, not for anything. “...no, no, not today....”, he said, a panicked monotone. He kept walking, trying to brush this memory of lapsed social grace away from his life. The memory of this awkward, desperate, unclean individual trying to extract money, for what he assumed would be something pathetic. Agnes felt sore about the whole situation. She should’ve created a more reasonable fiction for wanting the money -- “you don’t have some change on you?”, sounded like a flimsy appeal to his pity. She needed a new mode of attack. Keep walking. Corner of Kent and Queen. The downtown mall. More choices of people, of eager shoppers who find little difficulty parting with their finances. Her feet rested on the curb, as the people around her waited for the streetlights to turn green. Agnes’ vision focused on one person in particular. One lone woman amongst a small group of many. “Hey, buddy!”, she bellowed, playing the role of the long lost friend. “How about a couple of dollars for a friend in need?” The woman seemed to ignore her, but her mouth’s tremble betrayed her. “Hey, you!”, Agnes said, feigning friendliness. “I’ve got to make an important phone call. Well, a few of them, actually. It’s a matter of life and death, or something like that.” The stranger’s eyes looked to the heavens. Was she asking God for strength? Or was she hoping that God would drop a thunderbolt on this annoyance? “Three quarters is all I ask.”, Agnes continues, to willingly deaf ears. The light changed to green. The stranger, with steady, rigid, fearful determination, shot across the crosswalk. Sh*t, Agnes thought. The old standbys aren’t working, she thought, as she followed the lead of the stranger and the other pedestrians across the street, trying not to look conspicuous. She noticed, however, that the pedestrians paced faster than she, giving her a lot of room. She slowed her movements when she reached the other end of the street, slackening her body against the wall of an empty, long-forgotten building, formerly a record store, but now abandoned of melody or beauty. She watched, studiously, all the people moving uncaringly past her. There was one way for her to make herself noticed. Deliver a more convincing performance. Deliver a truly character-driven performance. She stood still, quietly, burrowing deeply and further inward, into the core of despair that she was in, and drew that rotten infection further onto the foreground. Her heart began to swell, pitying the body that carried it. Her body, weakening, harked back to all those moments when her stomach was empty, when her head was sore from poisonous alcohol. Stumbling, stumbling backwards. Buckling as her back skimmed the brick wall of the ghost of the record shop, she slowly fell, like a person who had been shot, to the ground. Her bottom half skipped over the chipped ice that formed around the cracks of the sidewalk and the divide between it and the building. She tightened her limbs closer to her, washing away every thought from her head, getting in touch with her inner shame, of sitting in the cold, with nowhere to go, no money to spend. She began to shake uncontrollably, like someone thrown into icy water, without any clothes. People walked past her. Some looked at this figure as a whole, as if they were in fear, or were embarrassed. Others did all they can to stare straight ahead to the emptiness of the air. Finally, one person, barely slowing her pace, tossed a two-dollar coin to the ground. The coin bounced until it rolled near Agnes’ leg. Quickly, without a second’s thought, she slipped out of character, and snatched the coin. Time for coffee. * Part 2 http://www.epinions.com/content_3198591108  |
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