Post by Gabbi McGinn on Mar 9, 2008 11:54:10 GMT -5
Gabbi was lingering inside of the butcher shop, leaning quietly against the pane of glass that fenced off the poor people from the expeinsive cuts of meat that sat, idly, behind it. It was near dusk and she was waiting for the moment when the butcher gave off the half-rotten meat at a fourth of the price to the street children and hoodlums who could not afford any better.
She was thankful for the fact that she was the first one there--breakfast had been provided, but lunch hadn't flown. She'd spent the time that she would have gone back to the lodging house for dinner hiding behind crates after a theft gone poorly, and it was now just too late to go try to scrap some food from her usual provider.
And so here she waited, trying her best to look forlorn. Which, of course, wasn't very difficult. Being a newsie and an orphan, which essentially entitled her to call herself a street kid, and thereby had learned the art of making herself look worse off than she really was.
Granted, at the moment she was positively ravenous with hunger. This made the whole experience much easier, really, and she had one hand over her stomach the entire time. Once or twice she inquired what the meat was, and got a gruff reply in very much broken English. The man appeared to be German--they oftentimes made the best butchers-- and she smiled kindly for him. He looked to be a kind old man, his arms scarred from various knife accidents and other incidents that had come with life, but his eyes were kind and soft. They shone with a dulled blueness against white, framed by the pale pink wrinkles of old skin. Large white eyebrows topped off the whole scene, making the man look rather comical if one got to looking at him for long enough.
But he was nice, and tried to make conversation. She replied as best as she could, trying to make herself clear for him. In addition to being old and foreign he also appeared to be hard of hearing, but his sight was still rather keen. The conversation didn't go far, but it was nice to not have to deal with any punky kid giving her sass for once. The butcher was very grandfather like, not that she knew, and she found a solace in his company, even when he was silent.
She was thankful for the fact that she was the first one there--breakfast had been provided, but lunch hadn't flown. She'd spent the time that she would have gone back to the lodging house for dinner hiding behind crates after a theft gone poorly, and it was now just too late to go try to scrap some food from her usual provider.
And so here she waited, trying her best to look forlorn. Which, of course, wasn't very difficult. Being a newsie and an orphan, which essentially entitled her to call herself a street kid, and thereby had learned the art of making herself look worse off than she really was.
Granted, at the moment she was positively ravenous with hunger. This made the whole experience much easier, really, and she had one hand over her stomach the entire time. Once or twice she inquired what the meat was, and got a gruff reply in very much broken English. The man appeared to be German--they oftentimes made the best butchers-- and she smiled kindly for him. He looked to be a kind old man, his arms scarred from various knife accidents and other incidents that had come with life, but his eyes were kind and soft. They shone with a dulled blueness against white, framed by the pale pink wrinkles of old skin. Large white eyebrows topped off the whole scene, making the man look rather comical if one got to looking at him for long enough.
But he was nice, and tried to make conversation. She replied as best as she could, trying to make herself clear for him. In addition to being old and foreign he also appeared to be hard of hearing, but his sight was still rather keen. The conversation didn't go far, but it was nice to not have to deal with any punky kid giving her sass for once. The butcher was very grandfather like, not that she knew, and she found a solace in his company, even when he was silent.
