McEldowney, Dean

Digital Commons @ Butler University

32 MANUSCRIPTSSkid RowDean McEldowneyITIS nearly time for the f?g to pay its noctu~nal visit. At a?outseven o'clock each evenmg the fog rolls 111 from the river,bringing with it that indescribable stench caused by the merepresence of the waterfront. A bleak-appearing four-storied tenement,with light shining from its cobweb-curtained windows, stands as asentinel, an impotent sentinel, against the fog.The neighborhood youngsters are still running roughshod aboutthe vicinity, taking full advantage of the few remaining minutes toplay before the fog calls an end to their recreation. One grou~ ofragamuffins is playing hop-scotch on the cracked and buckled SIde-walk. Further down the street is a gang of boys loudly protestinga decision in their stickball game. Elsewhere a number of the re-belliously inclined, hidden behind a white-washed fence pockmarkedwith political and religious propaganda, are stealthily smoking cigar-ettes. Some young entrepreneurs have gravitated over to the maindock where they attempt to panhandle coins from the evening-clothed ladies and gentlemen who have braved the district in the hopeof enjoying an evening of dancing on one of the swank river boats.The onrushing fog has nearly obscured the neighborhood. Itis time for the small, long-legged waif in the faded, checked dressto make her way up the long flight of stairs to the dingy three-roomsuite where she, her parents, and her four brothers and sisters live.Each stair moans with weariness as her light step, not yet beatendown by the disappointments of life, touches it. She is so accustomedto the ancient building that she no longer stops to read the etchingson the walls. Initials, dates, and obscenities in several languagesgrace the walls as the sole remnants of generations of dwellers.Back outside, the day-being has its place taken by the night-being. Across the street, two doors south, a woman's face, heavilymade-up, peers through a nearly opaque window. She opens thedoor. As she emerges from the wooden shack and the harsh lightfrom the jagged street lamp plays upon her deeply-lined face, it iseasily discernible that the make-up is intended to hide several yearsof her obviously full life. An aura of weariness and resignationpermeates her entire being. A man rounds the' corner; her tiredlimp vanishes and she gyrates towards the oncoming prospect. Theymeet, talk, and . . . the omnipresent fog creeps further up theblock, now enveloping an unfortunate human castaway who is softlyserenading himself in the gutter. More shabby buildings, some paleyellow lights, a line laden with forgotten laundry. And the fog creepson, travelling over the city as a blanket covers a sleeping person.

Skid Row

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Skid Row

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