I scurried away from him and skipped the following three people before trying a new vendor, but the response was largely the same down the line. I wasn't quite sure what felt worse: being completely ignored or being acknowledged and told that you smelled something awful, to get away before you contaminated someone's product. After being shooed a few more times, one salesman was kind enough to offer me water from the same bowl his pet feline used—perhaps more for his own amusement than as a charitable gesture.
I drink from it without hesitation, and the man proceeded to slap the bowl out of my hands.
“Get the hell off that, you freak!” He stepped in close to heft me in the air by the collar of my dirt-stained shirt. “We don't need any more fucking junkies asking for handouts! Didn't the others make it clear to you? Find somewhere else to be a goddamn parasite!'
The vendor threw my fragile body against the ground to the applause of a group of spectators who’d started laughing as they watched me struggle to get to my feet. When I stood up, feeling a spark of rage flutter through me, my anger was quickly quieted after taking in my surroundings. Everyone was just… looking at me, like I was some animal strayed from its cage and now posed an unknown danger to the general populace. They were all so disgusted to be associated with anything reminding them of a more “unwashed” lifestyle than they already endured. After all, the Citadel is known for emphasizing status climbs—especially from the Lower-City to the Mid-City, which itself guarantees a huge increase in social prestige.
The vendors, their attention seeming to be unanimously drawn to a homeless orphan, watched me carefully with the suspicion that I would attempt to rob or attack them; happy couples strolling by found that the sight of me suddenly made their day much more bleak; regular citizens and small-time business partners alike pretended that I didn't exist. The very space I occupied could be defined in one word: offensive. I think that was the first time I'd ever really had to deal with such a fusion of alienation and anxiety, both of which were compounded by the overwhelming urge to find some form of sustenance before the end of the day.
Something told me that making it through the night wasn't even a vague possibility without finding a solution to my own famine.
So, that's when I officially became a beggar: my first job.
Though the impoverished are commonly exiled from modern commodities and popular social facilities, it is somewhat more acceptable to accept your position in life and turn to strangers for that which you require to survive. It was my last known resource: ordinary people.
But by now it was obvious that I'd have to migrate from such a dense marketplace, and so I began wandering toward the eastern area. I'd forgotten how to formulate most sentences and needed to be reminded of what words to use, so I was reduced to limping around in my ragged garb and mouthing “Help” to those who passed me by on the sidewalk.
Unfortunately, this didn't garner any empathetic responses.
With my desperation becoming unbearable, I turned bolder and grabbed on the coat of an older man who happened to be walking the opposite way. He turned sharply and raised his hand in preparation to strike but stopped short after looking me over.
“What is it? You need money, boy?”
I nodded vigorously.
The man chuckled; his features then transformed into a condescending sneer. “What for? Tell me then, are you going to use it for drugs?”
“N-no… —”
“You're probably going to use it to get high, aren't you? Why can't you just busy yourself with work like everyone else, huh? You can't look away from the needle long enough to fill out an application—or can you even write?”
He started laughing to himself before reaching into his pant pocket and tossing a bronze coin up in the air and letting it hit the ground in front of me. He walked away with a magnanimous aura. It amazed me that someone could feel so proud of himself for contributing so little, but I took what I was given and stopped at the next vendor to see how much it was worth…
The vendor laughed at me.
The man had given me the equivalent of almost nothing in terms of money, and so I was told to leave while also simultaneously being accused of bringing fake currency. On my way down the sidewalk, someone walking their pet poodle rapidly pulled it away from me—almost as if I was ready to deliver a plague to all pets in the Citadel at any moment.
To these people, I was a twelve-year-old bogeyman with no place in their society. But finally, I noticed someone who happened to be in a similar state of affairs.
An elderly man sat against the locked door of a vacant and condemned apartment complex. His face was covered in acne scars; his skin severely blotchy. The man's clothes matched the raggedness of my own, and he had set a sign next to him that read: Homeless. Please help me.
That's the first thing I ever stole for myself.
When he saw me walk up, the beggar suddenly sprang to life and grabbed my clothes while pleading, “Please, son, help an old man out, wouldya! Anything you have to offer, man—I-I served your country, I did. I fought in the Invasion—got the wounds tah prove it, too!” He held up a stub that was once the seat of his right hand. I reacted out of fear and pushed the man against the ground before grabbing his sign and running while he called after me.
“God sees you, young man! God is LOOKING at you!”
I ran maybe a mile before a younger kid tripped me at nearly the exact moment my fatigue began to set in. I heard snickering behind me and watched bitterly as he and two girls continued on their way. I pressed onward and decided to use that very spot to set up the stolen sign and camp there while watching the people of the Lower-City go about their days. To my thinking, this would be a humbler approach.
In some areas of the world, the homeless are known to congregate in larger groups and pursue more aggressive, sometimes brutish tactics to feed themselves. After all, it's easier to continue pleading to the same person for help if one is surrounded by others working for the same cause. However, the spiritual condition of the Dawn Federation was such that people seem to feel segregated from each other even at the lowest levels. My begging was the purest form of survival in an indifferent city. And so, I concluded that people would appreciate my decidedly modest approach to asking for scraps; I guess you could say I was a fast learner. For the reasons I just mentioned, I was able to witness someone finally express compassion at my destitution.
A girl around my age was walking in between her parents, who held her hands aloft as she clumsily skipped down the sidewalk. Her family seemed picturesque; a mother and father who’d come to visit from one of the wealthier sections of the Citadel. They were dressed conservatively and walked with an apprehension that always came with venturing into one of the Quadrants.
When she spotted me looking ahead grimly, my mind searching for a way to escape the hand I’d been dealt, the girl appeared to use all the strength she had just to stop her parents from hurrying past. Both of them were forced to look me over reluctantly, and her mom instantly set about convincing her to leave me alone:
“Come on, honey. No need to bother a stranger.”
The girl’s concern remained, and she stared at me while suddenly appearing more mature than either of her parents.
“But he looks so sad.” The girl said, “Where's his parents, mommy? Hey, don't you have a mom and dad?”
I tried to meet her gaze but forgot my words again, so I slowly shook my head.
She frowned and looked to her father worriedly. “We should help him, daddy!”
Her dad, who was most likely a good man, rubbed her head gently and bent down to speak in her ear. I could hear him say: “Listen, Tierra… not everybody is special like you.” He offered her a genuine smile. “You’re our daughter… If we spoiled everybody, then we wouldn't be able to give you the best, now would we?”
“I… I guess not.” The girl replied, obviously torn.
“Come on, don't you want to get ice cream?”
He’d gotten h
er attention. “Yeah,” she said, “let’s go, daddy!”
There was no formal guardianship system for orphans in the Citadel like there is now, despite its reputation for having always proclaimed itself to be a “first world country.” Instead, each governed district was expected to fund its own programs and facilities intended for public projects. Statistics were low on the success of government homes established for people like me, and so the Majors abandoned the concept altogether to save on expenditures while occasionally paying out a small check to volunteers.
Just as I'd lost hope, the man's expression grew serious as he turned to me and reached into his back pant pocket to retrieve his wallet. He’d an empty, foam cup in his hand that he used to insert a small wad of cash before setting it down on the ground in front of me. The man then looked at me and said: “This is a bad part of town, kid; if I were you, I'd close up shop and move somewhere else. You understand me?”
I nodded and remembered what to say back, “Thank you, s-sir.”
The family briskly walked away, and I considered his statement…
My train of thought was interrupted after watching an older man dressed in a slightly better fashion than me casually stroll by while displaying a coat full of random items as he moved down the adjacent sidewalk. The man was completely bald and bore multiple cuts and gashes across not only his scalp but also his arms exposed by an old, ripped button-up shirt. From a distance, I couldn't quite make out his features but did notice an unkempt beard and what seemed like a set of empty eyes resting within a face that had become unnaturally discolored for reasons I would later come to understand.
He was very quiet, even though he was in ownership of a portable shop filled with everything from carpenter tools to old fruits to an assortment of clothes very plain in appearance. In his hand, he carried a sign which read: EZE’S GOODS! AFFORDABLE PRICES!
Not long after he'd come into view, I watched as another vagrant wandered up to him and grabbed onto his jacket while pleading for something I couldn't make out. He repeated the same word over and over again, but Eze grew aggravated and pushed him off before cursing the man and continuing on his route. The tweaker shrugged off the whole encounter and suddenly was aware of me sitting where I was. Some level of excitement crossed his features as he slowly stumbled over with his shoulders tensed.
“Ay—uh, ya got it? Ya good?” A vacuous expression dominated his demeanor.
I didn't know what he wanted, so I just stared back.
“It? Ya know? The stuff tha's good…” He laughed nervously.
Even though he was no one to worry about, I couldn't help feeling anxious due to my own inability to get used to speaking. I didn't know what to say to him or what he was talking about, and then my situation—already discouraging in itself—quickly made a turn for the worse…
A kid my age dashed by and grabbed the sign I'd stolen.
I rapidly got to my feet and chased after him down the sidewalk and into a small cul-de-sac. He scurried in between two condemned houses and through a grassy lane that gave way to reveal a small basketball court with a blacktop having been invaded and overgrown in weeds.
It also happened to be the home of a group of boys all decked out in whatever they could find that they thought was stylish. Their fashion was inspired by idols in an era of an abandoned generation, a time where the only people in the Lower-City worthy of looking up to were dealers who’d gone beyond lives on the corner to run their own ops or even their own labels after making it big in the industry. And so, I was met with the view of copious chains upon rings upon piercings upon luxurious watches only affordable—typically—to the highest class of citizen. Whereas one of the kids wore a tank top with the words “K’U—S’H” across it and sported gold rings on fingers connected to scarred and bloody knuckles, another wore a white t-shirt doused in dirt and oil and attempted to pull off a style by wearing baggy jeans and a pair of well-kept brand-name shoes.
Three other kids were adorned in their own interpretations of a very follower type of trend, and all of them seemed to answer to a much older teenager who wore a shirt with “Yolando” emblazoned across the back of it. I later learned that Yolando was a reggae singer who'd renounced his citizenship and moved to the country of Alandra in protest to the Dawn Federation while releasing several politically-themed albums and mixtapes.
The group of kids had made a fire pit and tossed a deflated basketball into it. It must’ve been busted recently; they were pissed.
The punk who'd stolen my sign hurried toward them and stopped to hurl it into the flames before shouting: “Yo!” He cried. “Some tweaker tryna chase me down! Help me!”
I froze before the lot of them. Even though I could probably relate to most of the group, I was still a foreigner who everyone thought was either a beggar, fiend, or, more likely, both.
One of the other boys inspected me before looking back at the thief and laughing with his hand pressed against his chest. “Hey ya'll, Dash let some poor boy down the street scare him off! Ain't nothin' but Junkie Jr., but Dash came runnin' scared as hell! Boy’s all bones, no muscle to back himself up!”
The group erupted in laughter—all except for the older boy, who simply stared at me without betraying any emotion.
“Psh, I told ya'll Dash ain't got hands. He can rob with the best of them, but don't put him in a ring with nobody!”
Dash seemed to take offense and pleaded, “It's not like that, man. Ay,” he pointed at me like I was an animal, “motherfucker could'a been holdin'! I ain't about to get shot!”
“Hell no, Dash, he ain't holdin'; dude's a straight BUM. Wait—you took his sign?” The kids thought that made it funnier. “How’s he supposed to get by without his sign, bro?! That's low, but it shows Dash be grabbin' anything he can get his hands on.”
“Man, shut up. I just wanted to see it burn.”
“All ya'll shut the fuck up!” The ringleader demanded.
The older kid in the Yolando t-shirt stepped closer to me and looked back at the gathering. “Dash, you gone let some little ass punk step to you like this?! Huh?!”
“I-I, uh, I wasn't going to keep runnin'—”
“Oh, you damn sure were, though! You ran from a fuckin' punk like this, and not only did you make the crew look bad but you made me look bad, too!”
“I'm sorry…” Dash said meekly.
In a flash, their ringleader spun and haymakered my face so hard that I felt my own legs collapse beneath me before I’d even realized it’d connected. As I hit the ground, he continued yelling at his cohorts. “You know what happens when anyone comes through and tries to step to our reputation, right? We can't just let that shit go!” He brought his leg back and buried a kick deep into my abdomen, forcing me to cough uncontrollably. “Ya see, that's that kid mentality I'm gonna get ya'll out of. If you gonna run with the big dogs—the higher ups in town, then you gotta live and breathe this life, dumbasses! Because ain't nobody gonna be chasin' you next time, Dash—they prolly just gone shoot you…” The teenager playing pretend gangster shrugged nonchalantly and kicked me again; this time, he used much more effort than before.
The group of kids suddenly grew quiet around the glowing fire pit.
“What the hell ya'll staring at?! Come help me beat this fool!”
As if on cue, they surrounded me like a swarm of crows. Hands and feet impacted my form in a series of strikes. While I attempted to fade out of the scene entirely, someone grabbed my neck and started to mercilessly jab me, breaking my nose and bursting my lip wide open.
Blood spread across my mouth and jaw, and I came close to passing out as the tip of someone's foot rang harshly against my side. I doubled over after being subsequently hit in the stomach, and my legs flailed in agony as another of them stomped down on my ankles. The beating I took seemed to last for several minutes before I watched as their ringleader walked away to pick up a small rock near the edge of the court.
He called out to them: “That's enough!”
And just like that, I felt the pressure lift off me to leave only the breeze which passed over my bruised, bloodied skin.
“This shit was just to prove a point; ain't no need to keep kickin' someone once they get it in their heads to stop fuckin' with you!” he spoke with emphasis, “Now don't let anybody else punk you again—and I'm saying this to all of you, not just Lil Dash. If anybody feels they gotta step to you, then don't make yourselves out to be their bitches. Everybody feel what I'm sayin'?”
“Yeah, we got you.”
The others agreed in unison. In response, the older boy handed the rock to Dash and gave him these instruction: “Ay, you fucked up but you gone learn from the experience, right?”
“No doubt.” The kid kept trying hard to avoid eye contact. There was some kind of fear that their “boss” seemed to have instilled in them.
The older kid gave Dash a sinister look. “I need you to show me that you learned; show me that you’re not lying, Dash: knock that bitch's ass out—and I mean all the way out! I could kill that prick with ease, so you should hurry up and finish what you started.”
Dash looked at the rock, then at his boss, and finally at me with new resolve. He steadily walked up and crouched down slightly, as if he were attempting to aim even though I laid right in front of him.
At this moment, I was only really able to see out of my left eye… and I used it to look back at Dash. Something about my eyes scared him, and he glanced off in a different direction for a moment. Dash then swallowed and focused his gaze at a spot on the ground next to me as he hefted the rock high and brought it down across my head, sending me into nothingness…
--
I awoke after feeling myself get dropped by what I assumed was the group of wannabe thugs. My head was pounding, and my own perception of what was going on was distorted. Hands roughly grabbed at the fringes of my clothes and clumsily hefted me into the air.
“Shit!” Exclaimed one of them. “Kid smells, yo! Heavy, too! I didn’t think a body weighed like this, man!”
Angelos Odyssey Page 30
