"A day in the life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A day in the life of a man down on his luck.

Submitted: August 12, 2012

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Submitted: August 12, 2012



A man sits alone in an abandoned house sipping on a beer with a full fifth of whiskey in his lap. This is a nightly ritual that he has been keeping up with for years now even though to him it seems like decades. He has been out of work for years, he picks up the odd job where he can but that is never enough. There is some fading light coming in through the broken shards of glass that are hanging on for dear life in the window. The house smells of stale blood, crack, and cheep hooker like perfume. There is a cot on the floor with a blanket draped over it that is filled with holes and wreaks of piss and stale liquor. The cot its self is covered in stains with the stuffing coming out through multiple holes that have torn themselves open over years of neglect and abuse, similar to the man or shell of a man that claims ownership to it. The man attempts to drink himself to sleep quietly as he reflects on what he has been dealt and what he can do to make tomorrow better, and by that what is meant is possibly get some food as well instead of just a liquid breakfast lunch and dinner. What can drive anyone to this kind of life I do not know. He hobbles over to bed which seems to be the only thing constant in his life besides walking the streets with what little hope he has left for a better day.

He tries to wipe the sweat from his eyes as another day begins. The man feels around for his cane and mostly empty bottle from the night before. It takes him a few attempts before he is able to get up to his feet and work his way towards what he calls a doorway. It is just a few boards that barley hold up what is left of the siding and a piece of ply wood that was at one time nailed in place, but since has all but rotted and is used to attempt to block the elements. At this points it was more of a hole than a board. The man ragged beaten and worse for ware has planned to walk to a parking lot 2 blocks away in an attempt to find some work. He slowly limps his way down the empty and barren street. The only house on the block is the one he has just left. The yards if you can call them that are over grown and strewn with garbage. The road its self has vegetation growing through it. There is a street light on the corner that has not worked in years. This is not in some far off place away from civilization but in the middle of a once great city.

The man approaches the parking lot that he has been looking for and makes his way towards the booth. “Morn’n.” The man says in a somewhat rough and beaten voice. “Anything going on tonight?”

”Not a damn thing Jack.” The man in the booth answers back. “Not a game, convention, or anything at all. My boy is going to hate it tonight. Sitting here with his thumbs up his ass all night long.”

Jack limps off with a pissed off and somewhat defeated look on his face. He wanders the streets near by with his free hand out stretched asking and his voice asking anyone in ear shot for spare change. His body to broken to do much else. He is incapable so it seems to carry anything besides the cane in his hand, what is in his pockets, and the weight that abounds on his shoulders. He once worked construction and was working his way to owning his own company, but now that dream seems far fetched at best. The work he once lived for chewed him up and spit him out with out anything to show but a broken body and a lust for necessities.

For all his asking he made just enough for a cheap bottle of liquor, a $1.00 lotto ticket and a 25 cent bag of chips. He sat in bed enjoying what he could of them before he attempted to rest up enough energy to face another day.

© Copyright 2018 a Detroit story teller. All rights reserved.

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