Down at the corner of Emerson and 5th, there was a little two-story drugstore that sat snugly between cracked streets and empty apartments. The owners lived at the top, with broken windows and maggots for children. Things would fly in all the time; birds, moths, flies, city smog. The smog was the worst. It would sneak in while you were sleeping and grab you by the throat, choking you until you finally woke up, gasping for air. And you would scream out, and all the buildings would light up, and you would be the only one with a dark room, and everyone knew you were the victim of an open window. Then everyone would close their windows, but they would all still suffocate in some other way.
To add to the declining property value of the dying store, there was a little tent pitched up beside it, in a sea of dead grass. It was a moldy yellow color, like a pee stain on a toilet, and it fit right in with the rest of the city. The old man living inside wasn’t any different of a color, either. The city pissed on him, and he too, was just a disgusting yellow stain. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone thought about him. They would throw rocks at him or knock over his tent, but he would just bandage the wounds and re-pitch his fabric home. The only thing he cared about was the alcohol that lived next door. Everyday he would walk into the store, and everyday he would leave with a few bags of whiskey or brandy or whatever else he could buy. No one really knew where all his money came from. Rumors bounced between schoolboys and echoed through the streets. They entered the old man’s tent at night while he was sleeping and invaded his blank dreams, but he didn’t care. No one cared. No one except for the poor store owners who took his money just as easily as the mortgage company took their rent.
It was on a Sunday when the first letter came. The old man walked in, walked past the owners who were reading the crisp piece of paper, and got his drinks and left. He had gotten to the point where he needed no form of acknowledgment or conversation. He simply took his alcohol and left, always leaving exact change on the dirty countertop. Besides, the little white paper held in the store owner’s hands needed the most attention. It was a letter addressed to the owners- they had always found this funny for surely it wasn’t addressed to the old homeless man living outside- stating how they were behind on rent. They had seen plenty of these letters during their store;s life, but this one was different. At the bottom, in big red letters, it read:
KEEP PAYMENTS ON TIME OR
SERIOUS ACTION WILL BE TAKEN
They read this and laughed as they imagined a fat, stubby man typing this out, then going home to his ugly wife, proud of his accomplishment, and then stuffing his face with her awful food. They would have laughed even harder if they knew this was actually true.
A few weeks passed, but on another Sunday afternoon, a well-dressed man entered the store. As he walked through the rotting threshold, he passed by the old man. They looked at each other silently, as strangers do, but the old man seemed like he wasn’t aware of the man’s presence at all. He had cold, dark eyes; full of emptiness and without color. The clanking of his bottles broke their gaze, and the man felt like the noise was light at the end of a dark tunnel, a tunnel he longed to escape from. The man was generally a nice person, one who was rarely angered and often donated to charities, but there was something about the man that he loathed. He seemed like he was the first person he had ever hated. The man shrugged the feeling off, scared, but still calm, and continued through the store, brushing past dead flies and the occasional spider.
The man told the owners that they were late on payments and described how the bank was going to take the land and how their store was going to be demolished for some new high-rise apartment designed by some young hot-shot architect. They had never heard of this architect. They didn’t care, they knew this was just another scare tactic. First the letters, then the man with the threats. He would leave and the cycle would repeat. But this time the cycle didn’t repeat.
The man kept coming back, smiling less and less each time. It was either from irritation with the owners or the consistent encounters with the old man. The old man came in less and less, though, as the man came in more and more, but they would always catch site of each other. Cars drove between cities, blood pumped through veins, the old man kept cycling between home and store.
An eviction notice was gently laid on the counter one Sunday afternoon. The man had enough; he couldn’t stand the site of anything anymore. His wife, his kids, they all reminded him of the dirty store and the dirty tent and the dirty old man who lived inside both. The job was driving him crazy. The eviction notice was sent out, the bags were packed, the bright yellow machines moved in like animals ready to kill.
The old man awoke and left his tent early in the morning. He always got up around the same time, he always got his morning drink. He walked into the sore, not noticing the big tractors and bulldozers growling at him. When he walked in, the store was empty. There were a few workers walking around, hitting walls and wooden beams, making dust snow down and bury the dead animals. They all stared at the old man. He stared back, waited until they were lost in his empty eyes and gasping for freedom, then turned and left. He went back into his tent and closed the flaps. Across the street, in an old 50’s styled diner, a young man watched as the scene unfolded. The young man was in his early twenties, with a beautiful wife at home, and thought of the old man and how he never wanted to end up like him. He turned around, back to his work, and saw his boss staring at him. The young man quickly got back to cleaning tables.
The foreman sat outside and watched the old man retreat to his tent. The foreman was a fat man with long black nose hairs and bushy eyebrows. The eyes that hung beneath were red with anger. The old man was still on his property and he couldn’t finish the job. He wanted to have a drink at a fancy bar and drive up and down the boulevard, looking for some girl to take home and waste his money on. He wanted to do a lot of things, but all he could do now was wait for the police to come and get rid of the old man.
The policeman finally came and the foreman greeted him excitedly. They were both ugly and overweight and probably could have passed off as brothers. As they shook hands, a woman walked by; she didn’t notice any resemblance at all. When the foreman was done explaining the situation, and all attention had been drawn to the little scene they were causing, the policeman walked over to the tent. He pulled out his black club in a sort of valiant effort, as if to show off his power. He didn’t need the club. When he opened up the tent’s flaps, he found the old man lying there, dead, whiskey running down his face.
The coroner concluded that the old man had died from alcohol poisoning. Jokingly, he said the store the old man lived next to was his murderer. And maybe it was. But anyone who cared knew it was really the alcohol that was keeping him alive. Too bad nobody cared.
To add to the declining property value of the dying store, there was a little tent pitched up beside it, in a sea of dead grass. It was a moldy yellow color, like a pee stain on a toilet, and it fit right in with the rest of the city. The old man living inside wasn’t any different of a color, either. The city pissed on him, and he too, was just a disgusting yellow stain. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone thought about him. They would throw rocks at him or knock over his tent, but he would just bandage the wounds and re-pitch his fabric home. The only thing he cared about was the alcohol that lived next door. Everyday he would walk into the store, and everyday he would leave with a few bags of whiskey or brandy or whatever else he could buy. No one really knew where all his money came from. Rumors bounced between schoolboys and echoed through the streets. They entered the old man’s tent at night while he was sleeping and invaded his blank dreams, but he didn’t care. No one cared. No one except for the poor store owners who took his money just as easily as the mortgage company took their rent.
It was on a Sunday when the first letter came. The old man walked in, walked past the owners who were reading the crisp piece of paper, and got his drinks and left. He had gotten to the point where he needed no form of acknowledgment or conversation. He simply took his alcohol and left, always leaving exact change on the dirty countertop. Besides, the little white paper held in the store owner’s hands needed the most attention. It was a letter addressed to the owners- they had always found this funny for surely it wasn’t addressed to the old homeless man living outside- stating how they were behind on rent. They had seen plenty of these letters during their store;s life, but this one was different. At the bottom, in big red letters, it read:
KEEP PAYMENTS ON TIME OR
SERIOUS ACTION WILL BE TAKEN
They read this and laughed as they imagined a fat, stubby man typing this out, then going home to his ugly wife, proud of his accomplishment, and then stuffing his face with her awful food. They would have laughed even harder if they knew this was actually true.
A few weeks passed, but on another Sunday afternoon, a well-dressed man entered the store. As he walked through the rotting threshold, he passed by the old man. They looked at each other silently, as strangers do, but the old man seemed like he wasn’t aware of the man’s presence at all. He had cold, dark eyes; full of emptiness and without color. The clanking of his bottles broke their gaze, and the man felt like the noise was light at the end of a dark tunnel, a tunnel he longed to escape from. The man was generally a nice person, one who was rarely angered and often donated to charities, but there was something about the man that he loathed. He seemed like he was the first person he had ever hated. The man shrugged the feeling off, scared, but still calm, and continued through the store, brushing past dead flies and the occasional spider.
The man told the owners that they were late on payments and described how the bank was going to take the land and how their store was going to be demolished for some new high-rise apartment designed by some young hot-shot architect. They had never heard of this architect. They didn’t care, they knew this was just another scare tactic. First the letters, then the man with the threats. He would leave and the cycle would repeat. But this time the cycle didn’t repeat.
The man kept coming back, smiling less and less each time. It was either from irritation with the owners or the consistent encounters with the old man. The old man came in less and less, though, as the man came in more and more, but they would always catch site of each other. Cars drove between cities, blood pumped through veins, the old man kept cycling between home and store.
An eviction notice was gently laid on the counter one Sunday afternoon. The man had enough; he couldn’t stand the site of anything anymore. His wife, his kids, they all reminded him of the dirty store and the dirty tent and the dirty old man who lived inside both. The job was driving him crazy. The eviction notice was sent out, the bags were packed, the bright yellow machines moved in like animals ready to kill.
The old man awoke and left his tent early in the morning. He always got up around the same time, he always got his morning drink. He walked into the sore, not noticing the big tractors and bulldozers growling at him. When he walked in, the store was empty. There were a few workers walking around, hitting walls and wooden beams, making dust snow down and bury the dead animals. They all stared at the old man. He stared back, waited until they were lost in his empty eyes and gasping for freedom, then turned and left. He went back into his tent and closed the flaps. Across the street, in an old 50’s styled diner, a young man watched as the scene unfolded. The young man was in his early twenties, with a beautiful wife at home, and thought of the old man and how he never wanted to end up like him. He turned around, back to his work, and saw his boss staring at him. The young man quickly got back to cleaning tables.
The foreman sat outside and watched the old man retreat to his tent. The foreman was a fat man with long black nose hairs and bushy eyebrows. The eyes that hung beneath were red with anger. The old man was still on his property and he couldn’t finish the job. He wanted to have a drink at a fancy bar and drive up and down the boulevard, looking for some girl to take home and waste his money on. He wanted to do a lot of things, but all he could do now was wait for the police to come and get rid of the old man.
The policeman finally came and the foreman greeted him excitedly. They were both ugly and overweight and probably could have passed off as brothers. As they shook hands, a woman walked by; she didn’t notice any resemblance at all. When the foreman was done explaining the situation, and all attention had been drawn to the little scene they were causing, the policeman walked over to the tent. He pulled out his black club in a sort of valiant effort, as if to show off his power. He didn’t need the club. When he opened up the tent’s flaps, he found the old man lying there, dead, whiskey running down his face.
The coroner concluded that the old man had died from alcohol poisoning. Jokingly, he said the store the old man lived next to was his murderer. And maybe it was. But anyone who cared knew it was really the alcohol that was keeping him alive. Too bad nobody cared.
