One crisp November morning before the sun rose, Lew, an artist of about thirty was crouched on the porch of an abandoned house.
Lew’s house, a dilapidated victorian home that had been split up into six apartments, sat next door. He was waiting to follow his neighbor Molly, an attractive young women who made her living dancing at the Lucky Lady, a local gentleman’s club.
Molly usually arrived home around 3:15am after the Lucky Lady closed and would leave her place at 5:00am. Most nights Lew played video games or watched crap TV all night and slept all day but always aware of Molly’s comings and goings. “What kind of business does a stripper have at 5:00am?” Even though they lived on the same floor and shared the stairs that led to their apartments they hadn’t run into each other but a few times in the two years he had lived there.
The first meeting was on the stair case.
“Hey, I’m Lew.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About 5 years.”
“Have these fucking stairs always been like this?”
Molly opened her door, walked in without saying another word.
They had met a few more times but it was always a superficial greeting.
Once Lew went to the Lucky Lady and sat in the dark so that Molly wouldn’t see him. The feelings that washed over him came as a surprise - rather than lust he felt pity for her. Though her body called out to men with it’s sensuous curves and soft skin that begged to be touched, her eyes told a different story - one of sadness and loss.
Lew, more curious about Molly with each day, watched her more closely out his window one morning. When she left at 5:00 she carried a full basket. The basket was empty When she returned. Puzzled by this, Lew decided to follow her.
The next morning at 4:45am Lew was hiding on the next door porch smoking a cigarette, waiting for Molly. There was a dusting of snow covering the ground. It made everything look fresh and beautiful.
Relieved Molly didn’t see him when she past. Lew followed Molly to the Franklin Street bridge.
She already at the bottom of the hill when I arrived at the top, surrounded by several persons. A small man with white hair and large teeth, ; what was happening was a little strange. I also saw a tall gentleman, black, willing and kind.
Discretely Lew made his way down the hill and stood hiding behind a bridge pylon on the bank of Pigeon Creek. Dawn is breaking and Lew can see about 20 men some still in their sleeping bags under the bridge. Just above where everyone was sleeping, the traffic has already started to thunder along sending vibrations through the ground underneath.
It’s cold on the concrete slabs and the living area, if you can call it such, is filthier than a third-world slum. This is a squalid community of the homeless, the jobless and the hopeless. This is what happens when dreams of forging a better life turn sour.
Finally their was Molly feeding the homeless from her basket. He was trapped. Something was...