Piccadilly Pioneers
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D. T. Jones
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67,8K
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81
Chapter 1
The air blew beneath the concrete overpass, swirling and twisting, carrying dried leaves and dirt on its cold journey. The sounds of the city drifted through the structure like the whisper of a maiden’s wistful sigh.
The hopes and dreams of those passing above hummed through the breeze, while the vibrations of cars crunching across the busy freeway echoed the end of another long day.
The laughter of lovers, the noise and confusion of children, and cries of broken promises all added their voices to the shadows of the cool, crisp night.
Huddled beneath the gray pillars were those who called the massive old structure home. The many empty souls’ lives had condemned them to a hopeless damnation, imprisoned in shame and sorrow by a jury of pomp and circumstance.
Their lives were vastly different from those of the people passing by.
No loved ones awaited their return at the end of a busy day. No warmth, optimism, or happiness echoed in their hearts.
No peace or comfort was within reach to ease their bittersweet pain. There was nothing for them but the cold of night and the darkness of despair.
The cries of hungry children, shivering in their worn, lice-infested garments, bounced off the thick walls. A scattering of graffiti paintings served as a silent witness to those who had come and gone before.
Each stroke stood as proof of the fate awaiting every helpless spirit who passed through the hollowed path of concrete. Death and hopelessness had conquered the artists’ once-vibrant existence, creating an eternal reality that haunted those who dared to stare.
They served as a constant companion for all who walked this road of gloom, expressed through spray-painted faces, words, and slogans among the frozen mortar of time. A painful tribute to a sad fable, the display lacked vows of “happily ever after.”
It was replaced instead by the grievous twist of sobriety. The wind drew in its angry breath, exhaling gusts of damp cold around the supporting pillars of the bridge.
It carried with it the sting of rain, spraying across the grime and filth caked on the faces of those gathered for warmth. As the rain fell, so did the exhausted spirits of the homeless, leaving their hunger and despair burning as fiercely as the flames in the hollowed-out, rubbish-filled drum, burning red-hot before them.
Cradled in her arms was the tiny body of an infant, abandoned and forgotten because of a mother who was too distraught and high on drugs to remember her own child. Around four months old, the boy sniffled and whimpered against the young woman’s breast.
His hunger chipped away at his tiny strength. His only understanding of life was that of bleak images, cold shivers, and sorrowful cries.
Natasha hugged the baby she named Nate, after her twin brother Nathan, who had been missing for two years. He was the reason she’d left everything she knew to join the ranks of the destitute.
Nathan had been barely nineteen when he’d left his home, his life, and his only sibling behind, disappearing into the shadows of the unknown. Their stepfather, “King,” had kicked Nathan out of the house in a drunken rage, accusing him of being a freeloader and a worthless bum.
Her brother was good and kind, despite what King thought. He loved her and their mother and tried to keep peace in the house.
Yet, she had to admit, something had changed over the last few weeks he was at home. A subtle transformation had begun, turning him into a recluse that even she barely recognized.
He started staying out late at night, sometimes not returning home for days. He stopped caring about everything.
Nothing mattered anymore. Not his family, his life, his dreams of law school.
Life had already been hard enough on Natasha, with her stepfather’s anger and her mother’s drunken stupor, but losing her brother felt like the final blow of an undeserved fate.
Stretching her toes inside the old, worn jogging shoes, Natasha felt the rough folds of paper beneath her dirty socks. She had hidden some money there, the last of what she had taken with her when she left home eight months ago.
She had scrimped and pinched every cent since being on the streets, saving what little was left until she could no longer tolerate the pain of hunger. Who knew how long it would have to last her?
At first, she thought she might need it to get her brother help whenever she found him. All of that changed, however, when she took baby Nate into her life.
Three nights ago, his mother had abandoned him as she wandered the streets in search of more drugs. The pitiful cries of the neglected infant had compelled Natasha to take care of him.
Last night, word spread through the grapevine of the homeless that his mother’s lifeless body had been found floating among the debris at the harbor. Now, Natasha had no choice but to keep the child as her own, taking him with her on her journey to find her missing brother.
Dismissing the thoughts of gloom and dread that plagued her tired mind, Natasha focused on how she would feed her newfound son.
She found a single bottle among the belongings the child’s mother had left behind, rinsed it out, and filled it with fresh water from the fountain in the nearby park.
That was the only substance the child had received in the past twenty-four hours. He was starving and needed milk, which she didn’t have at the moment.
Natasha knew he hadn’t eaten much even before his mother left. His pitiful little cries echoed through the structure each night, making her heart ache with sorrow.
Thinking about the money in her shoe and feeling it again with her toes, she knew what she had to do.
The rain stopped shortly after nine o’clock, leaving only a gentle drizzle of grimy water dripping off the overpass. Natasha wrapped the baby in a dirty, tattered blanket left behind with his mother’s sleeping bag, hairbrush, and lipstick.
Then she stepped out from underneath their concrete shelter. It had been nearly four days since she had eaten, and she needed to get the baby some milk.
Tonight, they would hide in the alley behind the Chinese restaurant until it closed. She knew she could get food there.
With a few dollars tucked inside her shoe, she should be able to buy some milk for Nate’s supper. Tomorrow, they would stand in line for a cot at the mission and hope for a dry, warm bed for a night or two.
Somehow, Natasha would have to find something more substantial for them. The brief thought of calling her mother for help drifted across her mind, but the risk of her stepfather learning why she had left home was too great.
Fear of his reaction was greater than her fear of the unknown. Natasha walked to the dilapidated old store near their overpass home and slipped the money from her shoe to count it.
Six hundred and eighty-seven dollars—a lot if you didn’t have money, but not enough to survive on for long. Quietly, she hugged Nate close, wrapping her old jacket around him before pushing the iron-clad door open.
The smell of spilled cleaners and rotting produce hit her as she stepped inside, forcing her to breathe through her mouth. She had been here once before to purchase the personal items she needed for her last monthly cycle, but she hadn’t paid much attention to her surroundings.
She had seen several of the others who lived under the freeway, stealing what they needed and searching the trash cans in the alley for any discarded items or liquor bottles, hoping to find even a few drops of relief for a sobering mind.
She only hoped she wouldn’t be around when the police finally responded to the owner’s call for protection.
The old Korean woman behind the counter looked up at the tinkling sound of the bell when the door opened, then went back to her bookkeeping without acknowledging Natasha’s presence. To the old woman, Natasha was just another worthless bum, dirty and useless.
Walking quietly to the dairy section, Natasha opened the cracked glass door and grabbed a quart of milk along with a pint of apple juice. She glanced over her shoulder at the woman, who had been joined by an old man, most likely her husband.
They started speaking in a language Natasha didn’t understand. The way they watched her made her aware they were waiting for her to steal something.
Maybe they thought the bulge of Nate’s body under her jacket was a gun or a stolen stash from their sparse shelves of products.
Natasha figured owning a business in this part of town couldn’t be easy. Too many drunks, drug addicts, prostitutes, and homeless people made an honest living nearly impossible for anyone.
Nate began to squirm beneath Natasha’s thin jacket, his soft whimper causing the aging eyes of the store owners to focus on the bulge. Slowly, Natasha removed the coat from around Nate and cuddled him close to her cheek, revealing his presence to the elderly pair.
Her heart pounded wildly inside her chest as she wondered if the store owners suspected she was not the baby’s real mother. Would they call the police and have Nate taken away from her?
Natasha stepped cautiously to the register and placed the items she had chosen on the counter. She counted out three single-dollar bills and waited for the old woman to give her the change she was owed.
The store was so quiet that the sounds of her husband, who had gone into the back room, echoed like thunder throughout the small building. Natasha waited patiently for the woman, who seemed to take an unusually long time counting out forty-two cents in change.
When at last she had the few coins in her hand, Natasha turned to leave, only to find herself face to face with the wrinkled old man.
At first, she was surprised. Then fear crept in as she saw him hold up a large canvas bag.
“You take,” he said in a thick accent, pushing the bag toward her.
Natasha shook her head, holding Nate tighter in her arms. She hadn’t taken anything. She had paid for what she needed, and right now, she’d give her last dime just to leave without any trouble.
“No, sir, I didn’t take that, I swear,” she pleaded, tears choking her throat and threatening her voice.
The elderly man shook his head and held the bag out again. “You take. You take for baby.”
Natasha looked away from the man’s intense stare and glanced back at the woman behind the counter.
“I don’t understand,” Natasha began again.
The man slipped the heavy bag around her wrist. “You take. Baby needs more.”
Natasha managed an awkward smile as she slowly stepped backward toward the door. She had no idea what the old man was forcing on her, yet she would have willingly accepted a python just to leave the tight confines of the little store.
Once outside, she drew a deep breath, inhaling the foul smell of the city. The rain hadn’t cleared away the stale odors of rotting fish and oil drifting in from the wharf.
It felt thicker and more humid than usual tonight, yet she savored the sense of freedom as she closed her eyes and leaned against the side wall of the store.
With a deep, calming sigh, Natasha looked down and carefully examined the bag around her arm.
Inside were two containers of powdered baby formula, baby bottles, a can of powdered fruit juice, a package of cloth diapers, four diaper pins, a thick baby blanket, a pair of flannel pajamas, and a bag containing bottles of baby shampoo, lotion, and soap.
Natasha’s eyes welled with tears as she looked at the items, feeling, for the first time in eight months, the warmth of human kindness.
Slowly, she put the juice and milk she had bought inside the canvas bag, then continued on her journey. She made a silent promise as she pressed her cheek against Nate’s dirty, soft head.
“This act of kindness won’t go unnoticed,” she whispered.
She vowed to herself, “I will do everything in my power to see the baby grow up happy and healthy, even if it means returning home to my mother and stepfather.”
