The Wanderer

Dutch Hill Shantytown

     I went in search of food, progressing steadily north in the sweltering sun. I passed quickly by the notorious Dutch Hill shantytown on Second Avenue, mindful that the rioters who had burned the orphanage might also reside in this God-forsaken place. The rank smells that emanated from the nearby slaughterhouses wafted up my nostrils. I felt the urge to vomit rise in my belly from the horse manure everywhere, the rotting entrails of cows, pigs, and goats, human urine and feces, and the blood running in slimy crimson rivulets between the filthy cobbles and into the gutters. Moments later, bent over and retching, I was forced to add my own internal fluids to the stream of putrid waste.

     As I approached one of the magnificent residences on First Avenue, I espied a servant sweeping the front of the home. A pallidly white and gloomy-looking individual, he looked at me through haughty eyes as I begged for something to eat. He disappeared through a side door without a word. He was gone so long that I began to trudge away, hoping to find another place where someone would take pity on me. 

     “Hello, there, boy!” The servant was calling to me. He held in his hands a small burlap sack, which he offered to me.

     “It is some bread and meat,” he said, “and a bar of soap. If you’re going to beg, you should prefer a clean face to assist in your endeavors.” I nodded, desperate to get away so that I could eat. 

     “Yes, sir,” I replied, my mouth salivating at the thought of meat. I took the sack and thanked the servant profusely before moving away to find a place to consume my bounty. He went back to his sweeping, as if I had not been there at all.

     I stole under a staircase at another residence and opened the burlap. As I ate, I offered oblations for the kindhearted individual whose pity had provided me with my first meal in nearly three days.

   [TO BE CONTINUED.]