The Loaf of Bread

A watery snow began to fall in the city, flakes landing like gentle insects on the pavement--lighting on the blacktop and then blinking out of existence as if it had never existed. The only clue to their brief presence in the universe were small droplets of moisture that remained. Gradually, as the night air cooled the small droplets began to survive a little longer, collecting along the sidewalk in constellations, gathering like runic letters etched in chipped cement. The old man knew how to read them. He wandered the streets and alleyways, discovering the secrets of the snow. They pointed him down one street, then down another. As he wandered through the fallen snow, he searched along the edges where the road met the sidewalk. That was where things were usually found.

This night, down an alley he had walked a hundred times, he found a small pile of spent cigarettes. Hastily, he gathered six butts, stuffing them into the breast pocket of his frayed shirt. Further down the street, he found the discarded pack, its red letters contrasting with the collecting snow. Shaking it, the old man heard a dull thud and pulled out a full length forgotten cigarette. The paper was slightly torn, but the old man considered it a treasure nonetheless. He returned the cigarette to its paper pack and carefully added it to his front breast pocket.

Turning left back toward the main road, he sifted through some litter that had blown into the street. Among the scraps, he found the wrapper of a candy bar. The smell of chocolate made the man's stomach growl. Turning the wrapper inside out, he licked the foil, sucking tiny crumbs that remained. The taste was cloying, and it did nothing but make him conscious of his intense hunger. He dropped the wrapper and rubbed his stomach, trying to quell the pain. His trick was interrupted by the sound of voices. The old man ducked into the shadows between buildings. He strained to listen to the noises as they got closer. He recognized the voices as one of the gangs that roamed the streets, groups of teens and young men who searched not for some things, but someones--people to rough up and rob. While the old man made his living as a gatherer, the young men of the gangs were hunters. They were like wolves. When together, they were bold. Alone, they were timid and shy. They were also easily startled, often scattering in retreat, only later regrouping with a plan for attack.

The man stood silent in the shadows, hardly breathing, desperate not to be seen. He knew that he was--perhaps--wiley enough to outsmart one of the boys by himself. But he knew that he could not defend himself against a group of them. His strategy, therefore, was to avoid the wandering gangs. Crouching in the shadows, the man waited without breathing for the gang to wander by. Then, he ducked into an alleyway and walked briskly to the next street.

As he turned onto to the street, he was startled to see a young woman sitting on the curb. The woman was wrapped in a heavy blanket. Her right hand held the blanket around her shoulders, while her left hand appeared to be holding something tightly against her. A gentle steam could be seen rising from beneath the quilt. It was a fresh, steamy loaf of bread. Of course, the old man could not tell if the bread was an italian loaf or a french loaf or a loaf of Cuban bread. It really did not matter. All that mattered was that he was hungry and that bread was a very good way to stop one's stomach from growling.

Regretably, the loaf of bread did not belong to him, and it would be wrong of him to take the loaf forcibly from the woman. However desperate was his hunger, the old man could not justify any violent usurpation of the woman's food. Taking it by force would make the poor old man no better than the waif gangs that wandered the night streets. Despite his extreme poverty and persistent hunger, at least he still maintained a code of morals. What he needed was a way to make the woman give him the bread voluntarily. That would be okay. Of course, it was unlikely that the woman would simply agree to part with the crusty fresh loaf; but if she were to become inclined to share it with him--perhaps as payment for some good deed--all honor would be satisfied.

The old man's stomach growled. He put his soiled hand on his stomach and pressed hard to make the pain of hunger go away. He reflected on the fact that it would have to be a very good act indeed to make the woman grateful enough to part with an entire loaf of fresh bread. He could not possibly think of anything that would warrant such payment. He decided, judiciously but reluctantly, to aim for only some of the bread. After all, even a mouthful of the bread would buy him another night of sleep. A quarter of the loaf would be a feast. Half of the loaf would sustain him for several days. The whole loaf would...but no, that was not realistic. He told his hunger that it would have to settle for less than the whole loaf. His brain forced his stomach to relent, but only after his stomach made him agree to at least try to bargain for a large share.

Punching his stomach, the old man limped over to the woman. She looked older than she was. Her face was carved with premature wrinkles and she was bent by the stresses of life. He sat down on the curb beside her. Not too close. She did not seem to notice him and did not move from her spot. After a moment, the man scooted a little closer. The woman still did not move. For a moment, the man wondered if she were even alive, but then he heard her quietly clear her throat. Wind blew down the street, blowing papers and other residue of human civilization down the street. Some of it got stuck on the curbs. Some of it rolled down the street in a a frenzied zigzag path, as if it was being chased by a wild animal. Most of it was useless refuse, but every once in a while something of value could be found--a scrap of food, a receipt, an empty container without any holes. Even though his mind was set on the loaf of bread, by force of habit the old man scanned the trash that blew down the street. He saw nothing he wanted more than he wanted half a loaf of bread, a couple of handfuls, or a bit of crust.

He inched closer and closer, until he brushed the green quilt. He could see her breath warming the cold air. Her breathing seemed faint, yet it produced considerable vapor. The man noticed that the white steam was a mingling of her vapor with the gentle wisp of steam swirling from the loaf of bread and mingling with her own breathing.

“Are you okay?” the man asked. It was not the best way to begin a conversation, but the man was unpracticed. He did not really care whether or not the woman was alright beyond what was necessary to procure for himself a handful of bread. If she were sick--too sick to eat the bread, for example--he would be more than happy to help her. He would care then. The woman did not respond right away, so the man asked the question again. This time, the woman simply broke down in tears, sobbing.

“I am sorry, miss, if I offended you,” said the old man, patting the green quilt with gnarly bent fingers. “I only thought, perhaps I could help you in some way.”

The woman turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were red with tears. Still, she said nothing. She just wept. The old man licked his dry lips. He was thinking about the bread. “The streets are no place for a young lady,” said he.

“There is nowhere else to go,” said the woman. Her voice was almost a whisper.

“There is nowhere to go for any of us,” said the old man.

“My husband left,” sniffled the woman. “I couldn't pay the rent.”

“A familiar story.” The man tried to smell the bread. The only detectable odor was rotting trash that lay in the street all around them. A light snow began.

Down the street, where evening began to darken the alleyways, the old man heard the noise of a gang of young men. He hoped that they would go the other way, down the block and around the corner near the night fires. If they came toward the two of them, he might lose his chance at a good meal. The young woman might also be harmed, though this he did not consider.

“It's not safe out here,” the man said to her. He peered through the evening pollution to see if the gang was coming closer. He could not see them, though he could still hear them cackling in the distance. If the woman heard them, she did not let on. His stomach had begun talking to him again. He could feel the muscles inside him contract, hear the deep groan of hunger. He felt weak, lightheaded. He tried to focus on something--anything except the steamy loaf of bread the woman kept clutched to her bosom. It was no use. The thought of the crisp crust, the buttery center, the warmth of it descending into his empty abdomen filled his thoughts. He became frenzied. He felt his mouth moisten with the thought of a meal. But it would be no use to get out of control, to jump ahead to the act of eating before he had actually gotten the bread. He wrestled his hunger to slow down, concentrate. First, he reminded himself that he needed to temper his expectations. Although he wanted the whole loaf, it would be unlikely that he would be able to have it all. However reluctantly, he would have to be satisfied with less--half a loaf was a full stomach; a quarter would satiate him; a fistful would quell the hunger until morning; even crumbs would be welcome. But it was delicate work. Food on the street was incredibly rare, and few people parted with it readily. She had to want to give it up, and he had to make her want to give it up.

The voices of the young men became louder, so loud that the old man could make out one or two words that they were saying. “Rough 'em up” one said. The others responded with laughter. “--on his head,” said another. The old man became concerned. He knew what these gangs were capable of, boys who roamed the streets looking for easy marks--old men, vulnerable women. Most of the time they could be bribed with some kind of payment. Food or other valuables, even an unusual trinket, would sometimes be sufficient to get them to pass on. Sometimes, however, they were just looking for trouble, or the prize was too big to pass up. Once, the old man remembered, four such men ambushed a wayward couple walking down the dangerous streets. Despite attempted bribes on the part of the husband, the men beat him until he could not move and had their way with his screaming wife. The old man had watched from the shadows, not daring to take them on, but daring enough so that after they left, he rummaged through the pockets of the couple to see what the gang might have missed. He pawned the wrist watch, getting less than he hoped because it had been broken in the beating. He also found a few dollars in the woman's pocket book and some change in the man's pants.

The old man knew instinctively that if the gang found them, sitting in the snow, there would be no escape. The woman would likely be abused, and her bread definitely taken and consumed. The man could not take the chance that his meal would get away from him. “Follow me,” he said to the woman, and motioned her away from the noise. At first, the woman remained sitting on the curb as if she were stuck there, unable to move. The man tugged at the quilt, and finally the woman forced herself to her feet, tugged the blanket tightly around her body, protecting her shoulders and abdomen, and keeping warm the little loaf of bread that she dutifully carried. Reluctantly, she followed the man away from the voice, and ducked with him down an alley, where the huddled with him behind a dumpster that reeked of rot.

“It's not safe out here,” the man repeated. “Those gangs get hold of you and it will be all over.”

The woman was crying. “Why are you helping me?” she asked between sobs.

“Everyone needs a friend out here,” said the man. “You look like you could use one.”

“My husband left me,” the woman said. “I got evicted. I don't know what to do.”

The old man smiled wryly. He now had a path to a meal, he thought. Help the woman out, gain her trust, convince her to share.

“My name is Ippy,” said the man.

“Ippy. What a strange name,” said the woman, giggling a bit through her tears.

“That's just what people call me,” the man said. “You know, a street name.”

“What's your real name?” asked the woman.

The old man thought for a moment. It had been so long since anyone had called him by his real name that he could not remember it. He tried to think back, to recall days before he had ended up on the street. He could picture the face of his wife, his sons, his daughter. They were only vague memories now, lost to the stretch of time, lost to the grip of alcohol and stress and starvation. Try as he might, the man could not remember. All that he could think about was getting the loaf of bread.

“I don't remember,” said the man. “Isn't that silly?”

It was silly, agreed the woman. “My name is Kate,” she said.

“I think the men have gone,” said Ippy. He could no longer hear their terrible voices. They had vanished in the icy shadows of the city. “Let's get away from this smelly trash.”

He led her down the alley, which ran deep into the bowels of night. He could tell that Kate was frightened. They turned left into the small courtyard of an old apartment building. A hovel of pieces of wood, cardboard, fiberglass sheets, plywood, and other assorted detritus formed the shape of a rough shack. Most of it was covered in ripped plastic bags, carefully overlapped and tucked in to shield the structure from rain and snow. Ippy pushed back a blue tarp that hung down the front of the shelter, and which acted as a door. He motioned her inside. Kate hesitated.

“C'mon, get out of the snow,” he said. With no one else to trust, Kate shrugged her shoulder and ducked into the little shelter. Ippy groped around a small table until he found a lighter and lit the nub of a candle fastened by melted wax to the bottom of a small can. It took a few moments for Kate's eyes to adjust to the dim light. She saw that the shelter was strewn with garbage--empty cans carefully scraped out of any bits of food, random pages of old magazines and newspapers, pencil stubs, and other assorted throwaways. She looked for a place to sit down, but the only piece of furniture that could hold her weight was a narrow cot in bad repair. Ippy had already sat down on the cot, so Kate looked around for a bare spot on the floor. Still clutching the package tightly to her chest, she kicked paper and cans aside and squatted in the far corner of the hovel. She shivered, so with her free hand she pulled the green quilt tight around her.

By this time, the old man's hunger was palpable. It fomented itself in his mind, and pushed his personality toward desperation. The thought of the bread--of not having the bread--drove him toward insanity. Before, he would have been content with just a fist size piece of bread. Now, however, his hunger had become so strong, so real, that he wanted the whole loaf. He could settle for nothing less. Depression, anger, hunger, desperation--the emotions muddled in his mind the way liquor used to do before it became unobtainable and new obsessions found a home in his misery. Funny, thought Ippy, how a person wants those things they cannot have. In his twisted logic, one should want only what one already has. That way, one would never want for anything. There would be no jealousy, no conflict. But that was Utopian--unreal. He did not have bread, and he wanted it. He wanted it so bad. He needed it. He needed it to allay more than three days of hunger.

“Do you live here?” Kate asked. He brown hair was wet with melted snow and matted to her forehead.

Ippy nodded. “It's not much, I know, but it's warm and keeps me out of the wind and snow.”

“Thanks for rescuing me, for helping me,” said Kate.

“And now,” Ippy said, rubbing his hands, “it is time for you to help me.”

Kate looked confused. “I-I don't know know what you mean.”

“You do,” Ippy insisted. “I helped you. You help me. That is what friends do. That is how it works.”

“I don't have anything to give you,” the woman said, looking scared.

“In fact,” Ippy corrected her, “you have a great deal to give. His stomach growled in anticipation.

Kate looked down at the green blanket that she kept carefully wrapped around her. “If I give you this, I will have nothing to keep me warm. I need it. I'm sorry.”

“You need not be sorry. That is not what I want.”

Suddenly, Kate realized what the old man meant. Her eyes grew big in the dim light. The thought repulsed her. The man smelled. He had only a few twisted teeth. He breath was rank. The idea of being close to him repulsed her.

“I think I should go,” Kate said, eyeing the exit.

“Not until I get paid,” Ippy said testily. He got up from the cot and moved slowly toward Kate.

“Please,” Kate begged. “I can't give you that. Maybe I could clean up or something. But not that.” She edged toward the tarp that covered the entrance to the small space. Ippy moved to block her, cutting off her escape. Kate, beginning to panic, wondered if she could knock down the walls, make her getaway by collapsing the entire structure. Anything would be better than lying next to the heaving old man.
“Give me the bread,” the old man hissed.

Kate paused. “Bread? What bread? I don't have any bread.”

“Don't you dare lie to me. you've been hoarding that loaf all night. I can see the steam rising from it! Give me the bread.”

The dawning realization sent Kate into a panic. She tried to maneuver past the old man, but he blocked her movement. She thought of hitting him--lashing out and striking like a wounded animal--but that would require the use of her hands. She would have to put the package down. Kate tried to charge Ippy, but he seemed to anticipate the move. He ripped the quilt from her shoulders and threw it on the floor. As Kate tried to move the tarp and escape, the old man grabbed the loaf and began wrestling it from Kate's grip.

Screaming, Kate clutched the bundle tightly, protectively wrapping both arms around it. She fought with rage, but that was no match for someone fighting out of desperation. Ippy's intense hunger drove him mad. Once his fingers felt the soft loaf of bread, they would not let go. They were locked on the prize. He could feel its fresh warmth, its structure. Anticipation mingled with rage from the unfairness of not being paid.

Little by little, Kate's strength ebbed. In the screaming melee, the two combatants tugged at the same time. The package tore apart, the crust grinding and the insides tearing. Kate fell backwards and screamed, tears blurring her vision as she ran from the hut and into the night, not stopping until she fell exhausted into the snow. The old man, triumphant, reveled in the silence and in his victory. He picked up the dislocated pieces, sat on the cot, and began ravenously eating the soft limp infant until his hunger was completely gone.