I'm conscious that I have completely hecked up the Taxi Driver timeline across this fic. This is all very raw though and I fully intend to tidy it all up when it comes time to edit. This whole story is likely to look VERY different once properly edited tbh.....
Homelessness in this part. Nothing overly grim but plenty of sleeping on the streets.
The film of frost covering the cardboard cracks as Freddy stretches himself out, muscles stiff from the cold. You can wrap yourself up as tight as you please but you've still gotta sleep on the ground. If you're smart, you get yourself some time in one of the bigger bins that are properly covered over by their lids and get yourself some proper shuteye. The trouble is, that in addition to being smart, you have to be strong enough to stand your ground.
He lies there, savouring the dark for as long as he can stand. The scarf, fished out from under a seat at the bus station, holds in his breath, warming his nose but forcing him to smell the stink of the past two weeks without a toothbrush.
It's supposed to start getting warmer soon. This is all going to be easier when it's warmer. Freddy pushes aside the disassembled boxes he's been sleeping under and meets the day.
The sky is a dim shade of violet, fading towards white in the distance, heralding the sun. He looks around the alley and, seeing that he's still alone, goes to take a leak against the far wall. He's not gonna get lucky like this for much longer, it's been two days since the last crop of rain came down and there's only so long they can go before it comes again. The trash has been piling up this past week, and while that's great news for anyone trying to find a spot to sleep it leaves behind the stains and filth that bring disease. It could all do with washing away, even if the cardboard disintegrates with the rain.
He can't for the life of him remember which part of town he's in. There's nothing to do with his time but walk, wander, people watch. Sometimes he stops in somewhere and asks for a job, but after a few days he started to stink too bad to make a good go of it. Soon he'll know this place better than any taxi driver, and all without trying.
Maybe he should get his license. Freddy laughs and stumbles out of the alley, his legs taking time to warm up, leaden and useless underneath his jeans. At least they've mostly dried out. The second morning he woke up with them frozen solid, had to use an old plywood board to smash them free before he could go anywhere.
It's early, early enough that the bus routes are the only stream of traffic that's properly occupied, but the campaign men are already out and about. A gaggle of them, down the street, putting up posters for Palantine. It's a thankless task without end. Essential to have the city wallpapered with the choice candidate's face but hard to keep up when opponents and stupid kids will tear it all down as soon as look at them. Freddy watches them creep up the road, smiling and handing out campaign badges to anyone who will listen.
"Good morning, sir! Can I ask how you'll be voting?" An overly perky young man comes bounding up to Freddy, pre-prepared speech on the tip of his tongue.
Freddy takes his time eyeing him up, trying to set his teeth on edge. "That ain't till November, man."
"It's never too early to start thinking about how to cast your vote!" The guy continues. His smile is too wide, his skin too smooth. His glasses make his eyes bug and bulge, far too eager for this cursory little win.
One of the others comes up behind him, flinching ever so slightly when she gets a good look at Freddy. "C'mon, Dan. He's not old enough to vote."
The party continues on down the road, and Freddy keeps watching till he can no longer hear the gentle lilt of their conversation over the crowds and the cars. New York wakes up around him, earlier than most towns, but anyone who thinks this place doesn't sleep is fooling themselves.
-----------------
Breakfast is pilfered from the bins outback of a Chinese place. Tepid noodles congealing in a soy sauce concoction that's salty enough to leave him craving water for the rest of the day. The sun burns through the frost by mid-morning but standing at the Battery Freddy can see the clouds rolling in off the Atlantic, thick and dark. Lady Liberty's flame catches the sun real nice for now though, and Freddy returns to fantasies of what he'd do if he had the money and the time to go see her.
He had the money and the time and he wasted it all dicking around mid Manhattan. He wasted it not talking to Holdaway and not making any fucking friends outside of the four walls he was living in. Stupid. He's made more friends in two weeks on the streets than he did in three months of living with a roof over his head. Cursory, passing friendships, but friendships nonetheless.
A quarter rattles into his cup, thrown down by a guy in a sharp suit who spares Freddy the same bewildered look of pity he's starting get used to from anyone with real money. The people who know what it's like to be poor, they tend to drop off what they can and move on, just trying to do what they can for the little guy.
What this country needs is a candidate for the little guy. And maybe that's Palantine but how the fuck is Freddy supposed to know? The posters bearing his face that litter the town don't have a single thing to say about his policies. Freddy's slept under the guy on more than one occasion and couldn't tell you shit about his political leanings if you stuck his feet in the fire.
Money trickles into his cup, slowly slowly but enough that he can probably afford something hot for dinner. He's hungry now, he's hungry almost permanently from the work his body has to put in to keep him warm, but he'll wait. He needs to start investing in cigarettes, they're supposed to dampen your appetite.
So's smack. He's a little way off that yet.
The best spots for begging are supposed to be up near Central Park. Everyone knows this, so everyone heads over there and the place is overcrowded as shit, enough to bring the cops down semi-regularly. Local legend says there was once a tent city in the park, big enough for all the down and outs in New York. But whatever collective spirit infected the homeless in the thirties is gone now, or it's weakened to the point where it's useless. People know each other, sure, but that's not gonna stop anyone from wailing on you if they've got something you want.
The meeting date he agreed with Larry is still three weeks off. In all likelihood, Freddy won't make his way to Central Park before then. He had been past the cab company three days after Larry bought him breakfast and let him cry himself out, but he was gone. Joe, shrugging apologetically, had made it clear that his contract was terminated, that he had said something about having to get out of town and bolted.
The police are still out on the prowl, picking up the tail ends of the Cabot operation. Freddy knows that the big guy - Joe Cabot - is under lock and key and is likely gonna die there. There ain't no lawyers good enough to get him out of the bed he made himself to lie in. His son, Eddie, is still out and about though. The guys on the street talk about it with excitement, like one lone gangster with most of his contacts down the drain is gonna do shit for them.
"Hey, employment's employment." Shaq had grinned. Shaq is kinda old, and his name probably isn't Shaq. He makes the most of the Time Square pickings and he never recognises Freddy when they run into each other but he pretends to as soon as Freddy makes it clear that he's seen him before.
The cold is supposed to start fading soon. Soon. It has to. Its unfair that it hasn't yet. Freddy can't even sit too long in one spot without his legs seizing up.
The girls outside the cinemas, and on the street corners, no longer bother him. Guys are only useful to them as long as they have money, and Freddy doesn't have any of that shit. Freddy has coins in a paper cup and fuck all else to show for himself. He has a thick, effective rain coat and a jumper underneath that's nice enough folk have tried to jump him for it three times. He has a mental block on ninety second and sixty fourth street. He's fucking useless.
A gaggle of kids start to creep across from the other side of the battery, their eyes on Freddy. Kids, it turns out, are fucking psychopaths. All of them. Nine times out of ten, when you hear of a guy getting beat up for sleeping in the streets, it's kids that are to blame. The other one time is police.
Freddy lets them get around half way round to him before he moves, carefully and calmly tucking his cup into the inside of his jacket and walking on. Walking anywhere. He spends so much of his time in this town just walking.
--------------------------------
And sometimes he thinks he sees a mustache that could only belong to Blue, here's a high whining voice that reminds him of Pink, sees a guy towering over the crowds and imagines that it's brown. Sometimes he sees the top of a grey trimmed Afro and goes running after it, just in case it turns out to be Holdaway, and he's always wrong.
He doesn't really remember where Ruddy lives, and after a morning spent knocking on doors and getting nowhere he gives up the ghost. What would he really expect Ruddy to do for him anyway? For all he knows, the guy was as wrapped up with the Cabots as Larry or Blue. For all he knows he was higher up. For all he knows the guy got taken away.
All he's got is there here and now, in front of him. The rain comes down and Freddy wonders, dully, where he's going to sleep that night. The streets stink with the mounting weight of all that trash, crammed together too tight. He would work as a trash man, if the union didn't have the city in a choke hold someone would probably wanna hire him for that shit. No one leaves out the kind of thing that a guy like him might be able to sleep under though. Not unless you're really lucky. Anyone who finds a sheet of tarpaulin grabs hold of that shit and doesn't let go till he's beaten bloody and it's forcibly removed from his hands.
Freddy imagines that he wouldn't let go even then. He's always been scrawny, and even a propensity towards being a scrappy little shit has never saved him from a good beating. Standing up to his father was an act of inevitable self sabotage.
So Freddy keeps walking, as the night turns dark and the puddles soak the bottoms of his jeans. He's wearing his boots too hard, they won't be waterproof much longer. He keeps going till exhaustion is too much to manage, and he curls himself up at the foot of a building and sleeps despite the wet and the cold and the hopelessness of everything.
Re: Sport/Orange - shady skeevey stuff - 14/?
Homelessness in this part. Nothing overly grim but plenty of sleeping on the streets.
---------------------------------------------------------
The film of frost covering the cardboard cracks as Freddy stretches himself out, muscles stiff from the cold. You can wrap yourself up as tight as you please but you've still gotta sleep on the ground. If you're smart, you get yourself some time in one of the bigger bins that are properly covered over by their lids and get yourself some proper shuteye. The trouble is, that in addition to being smart, you have to be strong enough to stand your ground.
He lies there, savouring the dark for as long as he can stand. The scarf, fished out from under a seat at the bus station, holds in his breath, warming his nose but forcing him to smell the stink of the past two weeks without a toothbrush.
It's supposed to start getting warmer soon. This is all going to be easier when it's warmer. Freddy pushes aside the disassembled boxes he's been sleeping under and meets the day.
The sky is a dim shade of violet, fading towards white in the distance, heralding the sun. He looks around the alley and, seeing that he's still alone, goes to take a leak against the far wall. He's not gonna get lucky like this for much longer, it's been two days since the last crop of rain came down and there's only so long they can go before it comes again. The trash has been piling up this past week, and while that's great news for anyone trying to find a spot to sleep it leaves behind the stains and filth that bring disease. It could all do with washing away, even if the cardboard disintegrates with the rain.
He can't for the life of him remember which part of town he's in. There's nothing to do with his time but walk, wander, people watch. Sometimes he stops in somewhere and asks for a job, but after a few days he started to stink too bad to make a good go of it. Soon he'll know this place better than any taxi driver, and all without trying.
Maybe he should get his license. Freddy laughs and stumbles out of the alley, his legs taking time to warm up, leaden and useless underneath his jeans. At least they've mostly dried out. The second morning he woke up with them frozen solid, had to use an old plywood board to smash them free before he could go anywhere.
It's early, early enough that the bus routes are the only stream of traffic that's properly occupied, but the campaign men are already out and about. A gaggle of them, down the street, putting up posters for Palantine. It's a thankless task without end. Essential to have the city wallpapered with the choice candidate's face but hard to keep up when opponents and stupid kids will tear it all down as soon as look at them. Freddy watches them creep up the road, smiling and handing out campaign badges to anyone who will listen.
"Good morning, sir! Can I ask how you'll be voting?" An overly perky young man comes bounding up to Freddy, pre-prepared speech on the tip of his tongue.
Freddy takes his time eyeing him up, trying to set his teeth on edge. "That ain't till November, man."
"It's never too early to start thinking about how to cast your vote!" The guy continues. His smile is too wide, his skin too smooth. His glasses make his eyes bug and bulge, far too eager for this cursory little win.
One of the others comes up behind him, flinching ever so slightly when she gets a good look at Freddy. "C'mon, Dan. He's not old enough to vote."
The party continues on down the road, and Freddy keeps watching till he can no longer hear the gentle lilt of their conversation over the crowds and the cars. New York wakes up around him, earlier than most towns, but anyone who thinks this place doesn't sleep is fooling themselves.
-----------------
Breakfast is pilfered from the bins outback of a Chinese place. Tepid noodles congealing in a soy sauce concoction that's salty enough to leave him craving water for the rest of the day. The sun burns through the frost by mid-morning but standing at the Battery Freddy can see the clouds rolling in off the Atlantic, thick and dark. Lady Liberty's flame catches the sun real nice for now though, and Freddy returns to fantasies of what he'd do if he had the money and the time to go see her.
He had the money and the time and he wasted it all dicking around mid Manhattan. He wasted it not talking to Holdaway and not making any fucking friends outside of the four walls he was living in. Stupid. He's made more friends in two weeks on the streets than he did in three months of living with a roof over his head. Cursory, passing friendships, but friendships nonetheless.
A quarter rattles into his cup, thrown down by a guy in a sharp suit who spares Freddy the same bewildered look of pity he's starting get used to from anyone with real money. The people who know what it's like to be poor, they tend to drop off what they can and move on, just trying to do what they can for the little guy.
What this country needs is a candidate for the little guy. And maybe that's Palantine but how the fuck is Freddy supposed to know? The posters bearing his face that litter the town don't have a single thing to say about his policies. Freddy's slept under the guy on more than one occasion and couldn't tell you shit about his political leanings if you stuck his feet in the fire.
Money trickles into his cup, slowly slowly but enough that he can probably afford something hot for dinner. He's hungry now, he's hungry almost permanently from the work his body has to put in to keep him warm, but he'll wait. He needs to start investing in cigarettes, they're supposed to dampen your appetite.
So's smack. He's a little way off that yet.
The best spots for begging are supposed to be up near Central Park. Everyone knows this, so everyone heads over there and the place is overcrowded as shit, enough to bring the cops down semi-regularly. Local legend says there was once a tent city in the park, big enough for all the down and outs in New York. But whatever collective spirit infected the homeless in the thirties is gone now, or it's weakened to the point where it's useless. People know each other, sure, but that's not gonna stop anyone from wailing on you if they've got something you want.
The meeting date he agreed with Larry is still three weeks off. In all likelihood, Freddy won't make his way to Central Park before then. He had been past the cab company three days after Larry bought him breakfast and let him cry himself out, but he was gone. Joe, shrugging apologetically, had made it clear that his contract was terminated, that he had said something about having to get out of town and bolted.
The police are still out on the prowl, picking up the tail ends of the Cabot operation. Freddy knows that the big guy - Joe Cabot - is under lock and key and is likely gonna die there. There ain't no lawyers good enough to get him out of the bed he made himself to lie in. His son, Eddie, is still out and about though. The guys on the street talk about it with excitement, like one lone gangster with most of his contacts down the drain is gonna do shit for them.
"Hey, employment's employment." Shaq had grinned. Shaq is kinda old, and his name probably isn't Shaq. He makes the most of the Time Square pickings and he never recognises Freddy when they run into each other but he pretends to as soon as Freddy makes it clear that he's seen him before.
The cold is supposed to start fading soon. Soon. It has to. Its unfair that it hasn't yet. Freddy can't even sit too long in one spot without his legs seizing up.
The girls outside the cinemas, and on the street corners, no longer bother him. Guys are only useful to them as long as they have money, and Freddy doesn't have any of that shit. Freddy has coins in a paper cup and fuck all else to show for himself. He has a thick, effective rain coat and a jumper underneath that's nice enough folk have tried to jump him for it three times. He has a mental block on ninety second and sixty fourth street. He's fucking useless.
A gaggle of kids start to creep across from the other side of the battery, their eyes on Freddy. Kids, it turns out, are fucking psychopaths. All of them. Nine times out of ten, when you hear of a guy getting beat up for sleeping in the streets, it's kids that are to blame. The other one time is police.
Freddy lets them get around half way round to him before he moves, carefully and calmly tucking his cup into the inside of his jacket and walking on. Walking anywhere. He spends so much of his time in this town just walking.
--------------------------------
And sometimes he thinks he sees a mustache that could only belong to Blue, here's a high whining voice that reminds him of Pink, sees a guy towering over the crowds and imagines that it's brown. Sometimes he sees the top of a grey trimmed Afro and goes running after it, just in case it turns out to be Holdaway, and he's always wrong.
He doesn't really remember where Ruddy lives, and after a morning spent knocking on doors and getting nowhere he gives up the ghost. What would he really expect Ruddy to do for him anyway? For all he knows, the guy was as wrapped up with the Cabots as Larry or Blue. For all he knows he was higher up. For all he knows the guy got taken away.
All he's got is there here and now, in front of him. The rain comes down and Freddy wonders, dully, where he's going to sleep that night. The streets stink with the mounting weight of all that trash, crammed together too tight. He would work as a trash man, if the union didn't have the city in a choke hold someone would probably wanna hire him for that shit. No one leaves out the kind of thing that a guy like him might be able to sleep under though. Not unless you're really lucky. Anyone who finds a sheet of tarpaulin grabs hold of that shit and doesn't let go till he's beaten bloody and it's forcibly removed from his hands.
Freddy imagines that he wouldn't let go even then. He's always been scrawny, and even a propensity towards being a scrappy little shit has never saved him from a good beating. Standing up to his father was an act of inevitable self sabotage.
So Freddy keeps walking, as the night turns dark and the puddles soak the bottoms of his jeans. He's wearing his boots too hard, they won't be waterproof much longer. He keeps going till exhaustion is too much to manage, and he curls himself up at the foot of a building and sleeps despite the wet and the cold and the hopelessness of everything.