Farewell to the Tramps
by
J.A. Mitchell
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
J.A. Mitchell on Smashwords
Farewell to the Tramps
Copyright © 2011 J.A Mitchell
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Farewell to the Tramps
He slinks to the garbage can. The drizzle soaks him, alternately chilling him and cleansing him. It is a brisk night, but he doesn’t desire shelter. His stomach has moved beyond aching, there is now no sensation. He is void. This great emptiness must be appeased. As he slinks through the night streets, his back arched, sinking into each step, his only comfort is the night. A dumpster compels him forward, and he obliges. He feels as if there is a desert between him and his destination. Wondering quietly whether he’ll be able to traverse it while simultaneously gathering the strength for each step, he passes by a puddle and is stopped by his reflection. He turns and stares at the small pool showcasing his destitution. His hair is thin and wiry and strewn about his face wildly. His flesh withered and wrinkling, hangs from his bones. His eyes have sunken, even receded into his skull, the dark rings surrounding them now appearing morbid. Ghastly, he is a ghost of life. The rain pokes holes into the image as it descends, making it dreamlike in appearance. He feels sorry for what stares back at him. Derision from a puddle is too much for him to bear.
He continues onward, eyes focused and mind numb. He finally makes it to the dumpster in the alley in which he trolls. With his remaining energy he climbs onto the edge and drops down into the dumpster. He lays there a moment in solitude and tranquility. Peacefully he contemplates the possible treasures buried underneath him.
Since the new legislation, dumpsters have become a bastion of hope. Now relics, they still remain behind a few apartment complexes, those buildings with residential or managerial problems that have postponed the inevitable switch to W2E bins. Those impenetrable fortresses that guard their contents unmercifully, the W2E bins. For some time most businesses continued their normal waste practices, and the dumpsters were still abundant. They saw no direct benefit from the bins, and had no care for the ideology. But, ever since the W2E business credit, the businesses abandoned the dumpsters and the dumpsters have since become priceless. It was ironic in the end that the only place to find these rare invaluable depositories that the government was trying to eradicate, were housing complexes that were mired in financial and administrative complications from bureaucratic policy.
He relishes in his treasure trove. Many a night he dreamt of stumbling upon such a find. There were rumors of locations, coordinates, whisperings of past discoveries. But every investigation into these claims was met with disappointment. He turns and begins to rummage and forage for what he knows lies beneath. But he finds nothing. He continues on, looking from corner to corner, end to end. He takes a deep breath and dives to the bottom, foraging, seeking, needing to find something. He comes back up and inhales deeply, exhales and inhales and repeats. He catches his breath and completely covered in trash, the juice seeping into his skin, he looks down at the refuse in bewilderment. ‘How, why, what is the reason for this?’ His thoughts outpace him. He scans his mind for reasons as to why his treasure chest is empty. They haven’t picked up the trash, the dumpster is filled to the brim. Every trace of nourishment is gone. Someone has . . .
He climbs to the top of the waste, makes his way to the edge and drops down. He looks around feverishly. He quickly tries to slink away walking along the edge of the building toward the street. He hears the patter of steps and looks back. Something is running toward him. He sprints along the edge of the building making his escape but knows he cannot keep the pace. It is gaining on him. He takes another glance back and sees a group not far behind his pursuer also giving chase. He runs but feels his pursuer behind him. He turns and pushes his stalker against the wall and bites down violently on their neck. A loud cry is let out, and his mouth fills with blood. He flees without regard to his attackers, makes it to the street, crosses and runs into the city park to safety.
He stands under a tree obscured by foliage, wild-eyed, disheveled and sullied. He lets the water rinse him off. He stands in shock and contemplates the bite. Never having been in a fight before he wonders about his instincts and what actions they guided him toward. It was the fear that made him do it, he decides. ‘It was my life,’ he thinks. He becomes happy with his ability to defend himself, but realizes that he should have known better. All the remaining dumpsters in the city must be the property of gangs, those that were smart enough to run in packs. He never learned the skills necessary to be useful to them. And, he was old.
It was the gangs who made the outskirts unlivable once they began to push his kind out of the city. They stuck together, and intimidated any competition to their survival. They also claimed and defended any territory that was vital for their livelihood, this alley being one of them. He was fortunate to keep his life. It was his hunger that made him thoughtless and subsequently careless. Gangs were notorious for being merciless to trespassers. And, he had found the location of a dumpster, their dumpster. That vital information was very seldom allowed to travel. He knew they would be looking for him through the night. But their ranks were thin and they looked frail, which was the paramount reason for his escape. They could not commit too much to the search and as long as he traveled a good distance from their territory he would be okay. He continued moving with the intention of making it to the other end of the park where he knew he would be fine.
As he walks his hunger becomes insatiable. It had been days since he had real food or shelter. Survival had become difficult for all of them since the new laws. More than that, the new social conscience was intolerant to their existence, pushing them from the places where they had sufficiently eked out a living. There were those who were able to survive adequately off the land, eating nuts and berries and occasionally whatever animal they found for nourishment. But, they went to undomesticated areas where they contended with nature. He surely would not survive in these areas, being a product of urban living.
He thought back to the days when he and his buddies were untouchable. They walked the streets eating and drinking as they pleased. Chubby was what they were, chubby scavengers, taunting the masses with their well fed forms. They snickered and waddled from here to there, knowing their feeding times. They knew how to pander for food, waddling about and strutting, amusing onlookers that weren’t seized by fright or disgust until they were thrown food. Except for their leader. He was always met by fright and disgust. His size was implausible. He was huge and his breaths were heavy. Gasps were a common response to his appearance with many fleeing from the sight of him. His appearance was so vile that people would throw objects at him, from food (to his pleasure) to rocks and sticks, in order to get him to evacuate their immediate vicinity. They still claimed him as their leader though, so impressed by his size and his acumen at finding food. He had no issue with toppling trashcans, or tearing through any container that he had suspicions of housing edibles. They were also impressed by his ability to eat almost anything and remain healthy.
Those days were over though. He quickly travels through the park, making sure to avoid movement. He doesn’t dare look for food or think about stopping. He knows that this place isn’t suited for individuals at night. But, since everyone is preoccupied with food, he is confident he can make it through the park if he remains vigilant in his avoidance.
With some time and much effort he makes it to the other end. His mind is heavy with memories. Realizing that these thoughts are a product of his hunger, he concentrates on the task at hand, food. He does not mind searching the streets, but the real threat of violence makes him reticent. He decides to stay on the main roads. He has no recourse but to beg. It wasn’t very long ago that he knew that this was inevitable, that he would have to take the risk of begging. He is not adverse to it, but the social climate isn’t conducive to it. He begins to feel trapped. A product of a system that no longer supports him, he simultaneously lacks the ability to leave it, but cannot exist within it.
He retreats again to his mind while tramping about. It is his childhood that haunts his mind. His first memories are of the only family he knew, his father. The man that kept him in his home, fed and housed him, took care of his necessities. The man was crude at times, drinking things that would make him swoon and yell, remaining in the company of loudmouth buxom women and generally seedy guests. Yet the man was never crude to him. He knew that the man could fix things. People brought him things that could not go, and he would make them go. But, in the end the man could not fix himself. He knew this as he stared over him that night, watching him lifeless and stiff, with the knife sticking out of him. He remembered the comfort of that filthy, cozy home, and his father, the man who spoke like he always had fire in his gut.
The faint scent of meat wakes him from his reveries. He is pulled to the scent and tracks it to a shop. There, he stands and peers through a glass pane at a child who peers back at him. The child sits under a table near the front of the shop. Above the child, several large pans are wrapped in foil. There is an obvious mound of something hidden inside these pans as the foil ascends to a peak like a small mountain summit. They stare at each other, the child and the tramp. Neither move, they hardly breathe, the only watch. Finally, the little boy stands, and opens the foil to reveal a mound of meat pies. He takes two and walks toward the door. Finally, food, he can be free from his hunger.
“Michael,” a heavily accented Middle Eastern voice speaks, “what are you doing?”
The tramp looks up to see an attractive middle-aged woman walking toward the boy. She bends over and scoops the boy up. “Do you see that thing Michael?” She points. “What are you doing? How did you get down here? You know you should be asleep. I cannot watch you tonight. Where is your father? Ahh,” she lets out a heavy and shrill sigh, “I must cook tonight. I must finish this order.” She drops the boy and closes the foil around the pan. “I do not understand; how can I do all of this? How do you expect me to do all of this?” She slaps the boy on the bottom and he runs to the back, to the stairs, and begins to ascend. She walks to the window and taps it firmly twice. The tramp hurriedly moves along. “Michael, you better stay upstairs,” she screams. “What a sneaky little boy, how did he get past me? Oh, how will I finish all of this tonight if he keeps interrupting me?” She continues to speak to herself, as she walks to the back to continue cooking.
Again he is alone on the street. His hunger is unreal. He traipses about, his walk close to a totter, and his mind wanders away. The streets, the streets were all he knew. When his father passed, no one came around. It was like the whole world knew he was gone and no one knew at the same time. He rummaged through the house for a week eating what he could, but his father’s body still lied there, cold and stiff. He had no one to go to. His father kept him fairly a secret, with only the rare visitor ever seeing him. His father never even had steady visitors except for women, and they never cared for him. Some played with him, but they would generally avoid him becoming uneasy and uncomfortable when he was present. With no one to reach out to, he left.
Thinking only of freedom he made his way to the city and the streets. He was never able to take care of himself as well as he thought he could though. He quickly became a scavenger. He had been alone for so long until he met the gang, his group and their leader. They lived well. They knew who gave food and when and how to get food when necessary. They were not above anything; they were survivors.
Family is what he needed. His thoughts jump midstream. His hunger overcoming him, his mind begins to think on tangents. Family is what the old need. He could be of use, brightening their day. They would get to know him. They would care for him. He decided, the next day he would strut and pose in front of an audience of people, and he would be loved. Someone would take him in, and care for him. It was settled. All of his worries were over.
Warmth surrounds him as he thinks about his salvation when again he catches the scent of meat. The smell comes from the third story of a home across the street. He looks up and the balcony doors are open, and the atmosphere inside seems boisterous and lively with music playing. His hunger again compels him. ‘I will go to them now and they will love me. They’ll see the condition I am in and they will feed me and care for me.’ He crosses the street and stands in front of the house. He begins to climb the balcony. ‘They will surely feed me in the least.’ He continues up the balcony, smelling smoke and meat, his stomach giving him strength to climb, his mind giving him reason, and his nose and ears giving him interest.
With much effort he reaches the third floor. With barely any strength remaining he hoists himself up onto the ledge. The moment he gets onto the ledge of the balcony a young woman points and starts screaming, the whole party turns and stares at him. He drops down on the balcony and he is met by more shouts and screams. Everyone backs away from him. Some people run for the adjacent room, others don’t take their eyes off of him. He sees the meat on the table, red and juicy.
He runs toward the table. Those that hadn’t moved now rush for the door to the other room, trying to make their escape. He climbs the table and dives onto the meat eating voraciously. Some peak from the doorways and watch him eat. Finally, two partygoers emerge from the door with brooms, others with objects that they begin to pelt him with. First he is hit with dinner rolls. One falls by him and he bites into it and immediately is smacked upside the head by a jar of pickles. Now dinnerware, cups, knives, forks, books, produce, he is being pelted by an array of items from a number of people. It looks like a scene from a carnival. Those with brooms stand guard at the door, their eyes transfixed on him. He is caught by a frying pan and stumbles back. Then two men enter the room, one carrying a bat and the other some type of metal rod. He runs for the balcony and they chase. He quickly gets over the ledge and shimmies down, hanging from the bottom of the balcony. The second floor residents who came out to investigate the commotion quickly retreat to their home and close their balcony door once they spot him. He drops down to the second balcony ledge, but loses his footing and falls. He hits the ground with a thud, a sharp pain shooting up his right side where he landed. Partygoers have followed to the balcony and now pelt him with items from the top floor. He slowly ambles away, limping, turning the corner of the house and disappearing into the darkness.
“Believe me, it was crazy last night.”
“No, seriously Cara, I was freaking out.”
The three ladies sit at the table, eating.
Cara laughs, “So what did you all do?”
“We just started throwing shit at it,” says Miya.
“That was really one fucked up graduation party,” Rose offers. “Cara, seriously you missed out. You should’ve seen that thing, it was all dirty and withered and disgusting. That was one crazy looking raccoon. I feel like getting a rabies shot just because I was there.” They all laugh.
“Yo, I’m telling you, ever since they started this trash burning stuff, these raccoons been going crazy in the city,” Cara says.
“Yeah, and now they advise not leaving anything out that’s too easy to get to. They say they’ve been so used to us feeding them that they’re going to get real aggressive before they realize the foods just gone,” Rose responds.
“Good, they need to go back to those woods, or forests, or wherever they came from,” says Miya.
“Yeah, and what about that one we saw yesterday, I don’t think that guy could survive out there,” Rose replies. They all laugh again.
“I missed a real crazy party, huh?” says Cara.
“Yeah, you did.”
“Yup.”
“That sucks. Well you all want to get out of this food court and do some shopping?” says Cara again.
“You know it.”
“Let’s go.”
He walks slowly along the grass on the edge of the highway. He thinks back again. He remembers the fun they had. Then he remembers that fateful night; the trash can raid. They were spotted and the leader started sucking down food before they ran. The leader was already slow, but the food had gone the wrong way and he began to choke. He was slowing down, panting, heaving and coughing.
“Look at this fat raccoon, this is the fattest raccoon I have ever seen. He’s even coughing like a person, what the hell?” These were the last words said, and then laughter. He never saw him again.
Why had his father left him? His thoughts again are racing. He recalls the walks they would take. He remembers his father beside him holding the leash. Those days were good. He walks along the edge of the highway, waiting for the right opportunity. This is where he decided it would end.
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This story is included in a collection of short stories, entitled, From Me To U.