My Neighborhood and Home

His name is Shaw Macrory, and he’s a mutt, some miserable mix of everything England has managed to preside over. He swears like a sailor and smells like scotch, and doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘subtle’. But he keeps his word, if not with a few hitches.

He set me up with a ward boss, a Scottish one. There is no Norwegian ghetto in New York, he said. He said that I was related to him in some way shape of form, and appears to be a very good liar. He also seems to talk with his hands a lot. However, being his sister, cousin, brother or whatever I was, the ward boss just as soon set me up to live with him.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, patting me on the shoulder, “Nothing to worry about”.

Seconds after he said this he kicked a rat the size of a small dog out of the walkway to his apartment. The neighborhood smelled foul, like booze and human waste. There were dogs running wild in the streets, and people huddled in dark corners. One of them tried to jump me on the way to Shaw’s, but Shaw, to my surprise, pulled out a small pistol from his pants pocket. The human mess of rags and filth slunk back into the dark corner from whence he came.

It was dark by the time we arrived. My new home was a pit of old bottles, bits of newspaper a couple of chairs, a stove and a broom closet with a loo inside. In the corner was a large mattress…ONE mattress. Shaw grinned sheepishly.

I yanked my blanket out of my bag and then threw it into a corner.

“I’d rather sleep on the floor.”

He shrugged and, looking a little disheartened, turned off the oil lamp on the table and shuffled off to bed. I heard the springs squeal in protest as he lay down. For a short while, there was silence as I drifted to sleep.

I felt something scratching at my ankle sometime during the night. At first I thought I was imaging it, but when I turned on the lamp by where I was sleeping, I was greeted by three large rats: one on my foot, one by the lamp, and one in my pack. I screamed, causing a chain reaction of a baby crying four doors down, a couple screaming from across the hall, and gunfire from across the street. I punted the creature across the room, threw my pack against the wall and scuttled across the room to where Shaw was sleeping, nearly falling on top of him, but still waking him up. I was panting. He looked slyly at me.

“Couldn’t resist, eh?”

“Shut up and move over.”

Things would get better. The weeks would pass, turn into months. I had never really trusted men outside my family, but where I once slept at the very edge of the mattress, I would begin to gravitate towards the center, eventually ending up against him for warmth and comfort. We came together in the safety of our home, held each other close, looked lovingly at each other, but outside we showed nothing. But still our company made this cold room and violent city bearable.