Everyday People is a new featurette of Rain, and found its inspiration in the age-old game of people-watching.
He scratched his beard and watched the marks go by. Dozens of people passed by him every minute on this street corner, his polite, quiet pleas – spareaquartamista? – ignored by most. Most were well dressed, though “well dressed” wasn’t a term he’d use to describe the way some of the kids were clothed these days. And in this heat, the skirts the girls were wearing were little more than belts, and from his level, it was almost impossible to not see their underwear anyway.
He’d seen the most interesting people while sitting on this street corner. He’d been occupying the spot for years, probably long enough to have worn an imprint of his bottom into the concrete. He’d seen the murder of Sammy Mason four years ago, he’d given a statement to the police and even been given a bowl of soup and a fresh cup of coffee for his troubles.
He’d seen the bank burn down in ’96 too. A nasty fire, with no known cause. He’d seen some kids fooling around just down the alley from the bank, but he didn’t know if they had started it. Nobody asked him anyway, so it probably wasn’t important.
He scratched his beard again, and lifted one boney cheek off the cement, feeling around with his hand to see if he had in fact worn an imprint in the cold concrete. Nothing. He returned to his quiet request to those walking by. Judging from the weight in his cup, he wasn’t having a very good day.
He hauled himself up to his feet and took one last longing look into the ratty paper cup as the sun set touched the horizon, barely visible down Elm street. The last rays of the day transformed the corner into something warm and orange, instead of its regular sterile concrete self. The cup was less than half full, and that mostly of copper. A slow day indeed. No interesting people. No interesting events. No money.
Limping slowly along Elm, he carefully transferred the coins from cup to pocket, counting as he went along. He passed the bakery, the junk store run by that pretty Emily Perkins, and the drug store. He walked past empty stores and full parking lots, past hookers and drug dealers on street corners. You could walk forever in this faceless, anonymous city. Eventually, well into the darkness, he turned off onto a short street lined with tidy, expensive red brick century homes. Nobody took any more notice of him than he took of the massive houses.
At number 18 he stopped, and looked up the walkway toward the house. A light burnt brightly in the large plate-glass window. He nodded to himself. It’s good to be home after a hard days work.