I drag my hand across the cold old bricks of a building covered in graffiti. It had been years since the place shut down due to unknown reasons. I had been living near it for about—4 years or so. As strange as it may seem, it was the only thing that remained the same throughout my stay.
As I neared the end of its rainbow art bricks, I found myself back on the sidewalk of an empty street. But was I to expect at 3 Am. Everyone had houses and apartments to go home to, food to eat, nice warm beds to sleep in. What did I have? A makeshift box in which I had taken a few other boxes and pieced them together with old chewed up gum.
When it would rain the box would leak, and sag. I had to find sticks at the park to prop it up from time to time.
It wasn't the most ideal place to sleep, but it kept me off of benches and out of doorways.
The street was silent besides the few vehicles that would drive by and splash water onto the sidewalk. I walked to a nearby bus stop in hopes to sit for a while before continuing on to the dumpsters of Pizza Hut.
Every day, in the early morning, I would take the backstreet of the graffiti-covered building and head down to Frost street to Pizza Hut's dumpsters. They typically would end up having a ton of leftovers—or trashed food— for me to dig out.
I reached the bus stop only to find an older man, grey beard, dark skin, and awfully thin sleeping on it.
I guess I'll just sit on the ground.
I sat down and watched as the traffic slowly picked up.
People would be getting up for work soon.
Me and the other people aren't so different, we both sleep, eat, dream, and even work. The only thing is my work and their work is different. I worked to survive, even if it meant eating food out of the dumpsters with the rats.
From time to time, a nice old couple would give me a few dollars here and there. They never questioned what I did with it either.
People like that have always given me hope that there's still good, unselfish people in the world.
But other times,
I would be given smug looks from strangers passing when I would ask for a dollar or so, so I could purchase lady products.
But could I blame them for not wanting to hand over their hard earned money to some street rat like me?
I suppose I couldn't. I probably wouldn't either if I haven't lived like them or had their experiences.
I'm just a sketchy teen named London, who would want to help a street rat like me?
YOU ARE READING
Street 237
Teen FictionShe never wanted to have to live in a box near an abandoned building, she never asked for that life. London Bryant depends on mother nature's mercy day and night, and on strangers generosity for food and money. But who would care for a stree...
