Now, today's prompt is a rewrite of yesterday's, opposing view. I draw my inspiration from a concrete poem I read once, from a random poetry book someone passed onto me. Themes in Journey, I think it was. It was a rich man and a poor man, separated by a visual rift of words, and the rift only grows wider as they move on. I definitely don't do the poem justice, but it's interesting to write about all the same.
Day 15: Rewrite the above story from the point of view of a wealthy stockbroker who ends up in the poorest part of town.
The man did not stand out in Toronto's busy financial district. He wore the same Italian wool-crepe suit, tailored to him by the same tailor who did all of his colleagues' suits, too. He had a slightly whimsical tie in the pattern of dark green fern leafs, to show his acknowledgement that it was the holiday season. Instead of reaching up high to reveal a flashing gold Rolex as men like him did in older times, or even pull out a pocket watch before that, he withdraws a sleek Blackberry to check the time.
Normally he would walk or taxi (because he has money to burn on waiting for taxis in traffic) the two blocks home to his shiny, newly constructed condo with a view of the lake and the CN tower. He shared that walk with many of the other suited men and women down the street. They carried the same Hermes messenger bag for business, and the women tied the same patterned scarf around theirs.
Today, instead of picking up lychee beef from that new Thai place on Front St., or sashimi and edamame from the Japanese place raved about by foodies, or even the deli that specialized in more than 30 kinds of bread catering to every diet for some artisan sandwiches, he hopped on the subway.
The subway's a farm of well-dressed sheep, he thought, eyeing his fellow passengers. That man had the same Rolex watch under his crepe shirt. Everyone avoided eye contact, as if it would somehow transmit terrible diseases if they were to catch another looking at them. He was different, though, he told himself. This was not his daily routine. He would never mindlessly sit here, listening to music or reading...God, who the hell reads erotica on the subway? He turned away in disgust from the middle-aged woman in canvas sneakers.
Four stops down, he looked up to the glowing map, marking their position. He was going to an important dinner with some very wealthy investors. Unfortunately, they lived well out of the downtown core and the congestion meant he would miss dinner by a good two hours. So he braved the subway today.
At two stops away, they stopped moving. He huffed and looked angrily at the speakers, as if they were responsible. An apologetic voice came on.
"We are sorry to inform everyone that the recent rainstorms has caused some structural damage up ahead. We have to ask all passengers to get off here, make your way above ground to St. Patrick's Station, which is two stations away, then return to the subway if you need to continue your trip. Our attendants will be happy to direct you or help you find other methods of transportation, thank you for travelling with the TTC today."
He scowls down at his phone and makes a bee-line for the opening doors. He hurries up the stairs, because he is in good shape from frequent gym trysts and a dedicated and perky personal trainer. Outside, he studied the unmoving traffic, his phone again, then made the decision to walk the last two stops.
He has never been in this part of the city before, despite having lived here for more than six years. Most of his routines revolved around the financial district, or dates in the entertainment district. Certainly not this seedy, half-residential half-money loaning area. A sketchy looking Chinese restaurant with a generic 'Chan's Chinese Food' is all he needs to know about this place. No upscale Asian-fusion cuisine here.
Construction blocks off the main street, and he is, annoyed and sighing, forced to take side detours. He walks down a largely residential area. He would bet houses are cheap here, given their distance from the downtown core. His suite could probably buy up two of these houses.
A child, his skin dark with both his heritage and days in the sun, runs out of the sub-standard house. He's laughing, looking behind him while another boy follows him, yelling something about pirates. They dash across the street and into another decrepit looking house. The man shakes his head. His friends' children were well behaved, in matching Burberry sweater sets and talking about their latest accomplishments.
He glanced over at the door left open by the children and shook his head again. His home was guarded with the highest quality alarm systems that he could monitor over his phone. I guess they have nothing to lose, he thought, then remembered his own expensive home theatre set, expensive gaming system and several bank accounts worth of clothing.
Almost there, now. On his right was some charity store. Two people, a young couple with a child in tow, were leaving the store laden with bags. They were strapping what looked like an old table set to the top of their dinky car. The man flicked his gaze away. He had the newest imported wood furniture. He caught drifting of their conversation, the couple appeared to be thanking the owners for their generosity. He's never needed anyone's charity.
Later, seated at the fine restaurant overlooking a private country club and sipping his martini, the man remembered seeing a group of people getting together for a potluck in the poor streets. They were gathering in a barely fenced in backyard. They had those awful Wonderbread sandwiches and canned pop. They were laughing and setting up mismatched lawn chairs around an old table.
The man shook the memory off and broke off a piece of the freshly baked foccacia bread and waited for his clients to arrive. Ugh, too much rosemary, he thought.
___....____....
If this looks like crap it's because I couldn't write this for four hours... Tough prompt.
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