The Feast of the Dreadfully Poor

In a world where wealth inequality is at an all time high, Ray Miller is forced to make crushing decisions to stay alive...

     Ray Miller was called into work on a gloomy afternoon. The factories built on the southern outskirts of the city were producing so much fumes that the smog covered even the sunniest of days. He had gotten home from another shift less than an hour ago and hadn't got a wink of sleep. Most nights he doesn’t get a wink of sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, the images of his work sites are burned into his eyelids. Night is the only time he gets to think, not that he likes to. He’d prefer it if he didn’t have to think at all, like those people who live on the north side of the city. They never have to think. Never have to think about what’s for dinner, their next paycheck, their families, or anything really. They just drink champagne and laugh their days away. He longs for that life. He longs for the days where he’s the one in charge, running his own business. But, that’s not his life. His life is day in, day out working. He goes to his shifts only to go home to sleep on old, raggedy shirts for ten minutes at a time, only to do it all again.

     He coughs as he pulls his shoes on. They’re two different brands, but they’re so old and worn, he can’t tell. There’s only two possibilities, though, so it doesn’t really matter. It also doesn’t matter that there are holes where his big toes are, and the soles are completely worn down he can feel each pebble under his feet. At his job, he has never ending choices of footwear and clothes. Granted, he’s not supposed to take any, but he’s able to sneak a thing or two whenever he needs something new. That’s where all his linens came from. Nobody would notice a couple shirts and pants go missing. Not that he needs any, since he practically lives in his uniform. Thick, black, baggy pants with a heavy belt and an equally heavy and thick jacket. The only thing he has time to take off is his thinner than thin shoes. The state provided the uniform, so people know who they are on the streets. There’s no missing the stalking black figures with their truck. The truck itself is broken down. A repainted, recycled garbage truck. 

     Calls usually happen in the night, but afternoon or morning calls aren’t too unusual. There’s always someplace they need to be. Nighttime is just when people are home from work and can no longer stand the smell because it reminds them of their nearing reality. Coincidentally, most people die in the night. It gets too cold for them to handle, likely because they have no fat for insulation or any electricity. It’s hard to be fat or have fat when you have no food to eat. Most people who own homes in this part of town can’t afford electricity.  

     Ray Miller lives right around the corner from the call. He just gets up from his bed in the alley, scooches past the other people laying there, and turns the corner. He works for the government beautification crew, whose job is to beautify the city. The beautification crew has two steps. The first step is to remove the waste. They bag everything up, put it in their truck, and take it to be burned (the second step). The burning doesn’t really help with the smoke problem, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that. No one does. Well, except for the people on the north side of the city. They have all the time in the world. But, apparently, from his buddy Gene, who is a farmer for them, there is no smoke problem on the north side. Or a smell problem. It makes sense, since the beautification crew is never on the north side. All the work to do is down here. 

     Ray Miller arrives at his job site. 847 Marsh Lane. It might be the wrong address because the little, old radio he carries around is so broken, he could barely hear. But, then he sees his coworker dragging his way up the stairs with the bags. A family. He follows his way up the stairs and gets to work. 

     He doesn’t make enough money to afford food from the grocery store often. He usually has to save for a few weeks to afford an apple or some bread, so he sneaks food home from his work sites. Unfortunately for him, they also don’t have much food stashed in their fridge. In these parts of town, you have to pick between food or housing. Meaning most of the families he’s cleaning up chose a roof over their heads instead of food in their stomachs. At least they had each other. 

     Ray Miller was only nine years old when he was selected for the beautification crew. He wasn’t even eleven when he was called to his family’s home. It was the worst call he’s ever gotten to this day. Twenty years later and he still sees the images of the rotten bodies and blood seeping through the thin wood floors. He can still feel the maggots crawling under his feet and the awful stench. No image has ever compared to seeing his mom, his dad, his brother laying around like they’ve been dying for years. Like they’ve been dead for weeks before the crew showed up. The fridges were empty and clean; there’s never been food in there. 

     Ray Miller counts it as a blessing that he was recruited for the beautification crew. It’s the best paying government job at three dollars a week, sometimes you get clothes, and sometimes you get food. It’s always a hard decision when sneaking dinners home from the other worksite. All the bodies go into a pile to be burned (not a lot of burial space in a city), and nobody would notice a limb or two missing. His stomach used to curl for the first few years he did it, but he figured he’d rather his stomach curl than to die of starvation. 

     Sometimes, if he has the energy, he’ll drag himself to the highest building in this part of town. He likes to look at the north side of the city and fantasize a life for himself. A life of laughter, where he doesn’t work for the beautification crew, but for himself. A life with hope and joy, where there’s food in his stomach and a roof over his head. A life worth living. 

     Most of all, he curses at the people in the north side of the city. While they dine in their luxury penthouses, sip champagne on their yachts, and berate farmers on huge plots of land, he cleans up bodies throughout the city. He cleans up people whose lives were stolen because they didn’t have food, water, medicine, or shelter. They have dinner parties with endless amounts of food while he steals the cooked remains of his neighbors as the country battles a famine. “Not enough food to go around,” they said. “Terrible disease, terrible drought,” they said. Ray Miller knows that’s not true, but there’s no one to talk to about it. Nothing to do. Most of the people here in the south side of the city don’t have the time or energy to think about it. There’s not a lot of time to think when life is sleep, work, repeat. 

     Ray Miller thinks about what his friend Gene says about those rich guys on the north side. Gene tells him about their big homes with large yards, their multitudes of fancy cars (the poor can’t afford cars in this part of town), and their extravagant clothes. He especially thinks about what they tell his friend Gene. They lecture him while he farms, critiquing and controlling while they complain about their lavish life. “Money doesn’t buy happiness,” his friend Gene relayed to him. Ray Miller thinks otherwise. If he had a single penny more, he’d be happy. A nickel more, and he would have actual shoes on his feet. A dime more, and he wouldn’t have to eat workplace remains in order to survive. A quarter more, and he would afford another hour of break. A dollar more, and he would have a measly roof over his head, with a few other tenants. No, Ray Miller thinks. Money doesn’t buy happiness… it gives it. Money gives freedom. If Ray Miller had a few dollars more, he’d have the life he fantasizes about. He’d have a life of hope and joy. He’d have a life of laughter. Life would be worth living. 

     Ray Miller gets another call on his stupid radio. Suddenly, he’s overcome with a sense of anger. His last thoughts before he leaves to go back to work are this: 

     If money gives freedom, then he is a slave.