Blog #2-Getting Hungry

The park didn't have many trees, but this one was as tall as Washington Heights. Fil had taken some old floorboards from the abandoned house and hoisted them three-fourths of the way up the tree with some rope that he had borrowed from the conveinience store. Borrowed, because one day he planned to give everything back. In fact, the first thing he saw everyday when he scaled the tree to his platform was a list- a list of everything he had ever taken. Along with the list, he had heeps of blankets piled in a corner, resembling a dog's bed. Various other oddments were strewn about the planks, but nothing of any signifigance besides a crumpled newspaper article, that lay within the recesses of his blankets.

Fil sat up from the wooden platform of his tree. He didn't think it was very comfortable-the planks, but this was the safest place in the whole town-cheapest too. The whole town seemed frozen in time. He recalled the police station as being quite terrible. If he thought about it, the whole rest of the city had some sort of problem as well. Something. Addictions, crime, paranoia. Something was wrong with Fil too. He was poor. He was homeless. There was nothing he could do about it. He was ten. This didn't bother him much except that he got hungry. He was hungry now. With a ressigned sigh, he pulled on his wool hat; partway over his glasses, slid his cigarettes into his back pocket, and shimmied down the tree.

He had a regular place that he borrowed from. The Old Woman Pearl's place. She always kept the place stocked with food for her no-good grandson, and she was always gone on some errand. He quickly reached her door. After making sure the lights were off, he tried the handle. His instints told him something was fishy. Pearl always locked her door. He peered through the darkness to see the shady figure of a man eating a cookie. He slowly backed out of the door, and holding his breath, began heading for the stairs, but he saw Old Woman Pearl coming out of the stairway, so he quickly backed into an obscure cranny of the hallway. Pearl shrieked. Fil ran, bumping into the grandson on his flight down.

Finally back in his tree, Fil let out a deep breath. Something was going on here, and he didn't like it.

Fil-Tree

He slapped the pack of Camel's against his little hand. Light. Nonfilter. Never opened, never smoked. Leaning against the bus stop, he holds the Evening Post. The piece of notebook paper attached to the bus stop sign claims that each edition is available for just a nickle. The change cup lays empty by his feet. This doesn't bother him though. He sure wouldn't waste a nickel on words on paper, folded together. What'd he know though, a ten year old kid, who barely talked to anyone, eyes always hidden by those purple-tinted glasses. The clock hit the eight. Fil waited for the last stroke, in case any stragglers wanted to rush out and buy some bedtime reading. He saw noone, so he packed up his wares and headed back to the park.