Revised Draft - old man

Kayla Ross
Ms.Defeo
Fiction Writing
 
                                                        “Sole Survivor”
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         Stiff air engulfed the 42nd Subway station, feet hustled by quickly, shoulders were aligned and a dim light flickered in sync with the morning rush. An older weary man, carried a large patterned cloth over his shoulder, his battered clothes swept the subway floor while long gray strands of hair surrounded his face.  He made his way over to wooden benches and laid down the bag that had been such a burden on his back.
   “Get your shoes right here folks , Come rest your poor tired soles, New York takes a toil on poor souls and we have a special on soles today ! Get em here! Get em here!  Together, we may have soles that look different but my soles are  all the same! No sole is better than the other, I swear! Don't  you dare let prices and advertisements  fool you ! My  soles are all one prices. How you dress up your sole depends completely on you but in the end , remember sole does not make the man, it's the man that makes the sole.”
 
​Every morning the silky linen sheets greet my face, while the sun beams down onto my eyelids. Loud honks, clock alarms and the humming of birds, all entered my ears. The beautiful yellow taxis, resembling butterfly fish, swim in the street. Multiples of green trees bud pollen and acorns. I slip into my majestic velvet robe, wipe the corner of my eyes  and head into my Victorian-styled kitchen, the scent of Kopi Luwak coffee penetrates  my nose and the smell of bacon and egg steams my nose hairs.  My house - keeper, Melanie irons my Armani Exchange suit, while I read the Wall Street Journal, the small-printed “Recession deepens: More Jobs Lost, “Homeless number now at peak” fails to catch my eye. What should I care about the homeless? Always begging for change , someone has to be on the bottom so others can be on top. I deserve everything I have, money runs through my veins. I check NASDAQ and am relieved that my stocks are at peak. I then walk to my closet and am greeted by a multitude of colors: dark blues, a range of beige, magentas and grays. I skim over my collection of shoes where my newest addition awaits me: Ferragamos. Fresh out the box, custom made and delivered straight to my door, soles clean. It feels good to be at top, who cares about the bottom?  I grabbed my Burberry Suede trench coat and rushed into the train station. “Get your shoes right here folks” the sound of an old hag’s voice filled my ear drums, interrupting the relaxed mood I had worked so hard to maintain this morning. The shining light of train captured my pupil and I headed to the front, suddenly I felt a splash of substance fall on to my arms, it was coffee. In front of me was a wide-eyed woman.
“I’m  sorry sir , Please forgive me ” ,she yelled while running into the  open train door. I was frozen in my steps, speechless and watched the idiot who ruined my seven-hundred dollar coat leave without any sort of reimbursement.
 
 
 
The train doors close behind me which, gave me freedom from my embarrassing encounter.  A seat catches my eye and suddenly the curtains of my eye-lid begin to shut.
The half empty cup of coffee in my hand begins to sink, and I’m suddenly awakened by the pain of my foot when someone accidentally steps on it.  I’m then pulled back into my reality. The air is heavy, lights are bright and “excuse me’s,” following nose blowing and sniffling, are all in heavy rotation. The iron doors open, finally allowing me my freedom, and I’m engulfed into a new world. Shoulders barge by me, gray pigeons bob by the side of my legs. While men sing “Extra!” “Extra!“ tourists’ look like helpless flounders in a sea of sharks. They remain, mouths open, shocked and wide-eyed at the busy environment that goes by the name of New York City.  Commuting and working become habitual, holidays or a relaxed weekend has never been in my vocabulary. It is the work that many loathe but for me it makes ends meet.  Robotic movements, hands steady, Uniform blue, name tag positioned, loose strands of hair gelled back neat, small earrings in my ear. Sweat drips down my neck, my pupils subdued by the multiple dark blues, and blacks that pass by me one-by-one. Sew, Sew, Stitch, Stitch, Stitch, minutes turn to hours, seconds turn into minutes until release time. My legs weak, head throbbing but I know all my pain will pay off in the green dollar. My poor shoes, laces brown, tongues battered, soles worn out and thin. I’m ready to quit, but I will stay optimistic.
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         The cold air slaps the side of my face, the sky painted a dark shade of blue, men sit on steps, others lean against the wall. New York fills my lungs yet and leaves  a bittersweet aftertaste in my mouth.  I miss my Puebla, I miss my beautiful skyline the soft my toes and fingertips.  Puebla accepts  my people and myself, There is an overall struggle in Puebla,  women carry gallons of water on their shoulders, while men come home covered in dirt and sweat leaving the setting sun behind them. Children head to farms instead of reaching for books. Not many were better off than others, unlike New York where we immigrants were looked down upon as scum. A large gray rat jolts across my feet and back into  the heap of garbage where it came from. Car lights shines on our faces, none stopping, hopefully one would. Eager eyes try to anticipate the car that would answer prayers, for work is not a guarantee and neither was food, but being in America surely guarantees  more full bellies than being at home. It allows my children to go to school and follow a dreams, a gateway out of the multiple construction jobs I always perform. I glance  at an advertisement it seems to be for NIKE, the only words I seem to make out is “run to your potential” . The rest of the words twist and dance on the poster, pure gibberish. The hairs on the back of my neck raise, as a red truck honks loudly and men scream  out, “Come on! Move, Move!.”  I pick up my red backpack and run towards the car, my palms sweaty, my feet beginning to ache even before my day has even started.  Blue jeans, dirty corduroys all passes me, the exhausts blows off in my face, causing my eyes to squint. My god I’ve missed the truck! This seems like a bad dream. This can’t be happening. It’s my fault, I should have been paying attention. What will my children eat? that fifty six dollars would have went a long way.  Now what? The truck seemed to depart in slow motion, the men on it had smirks on their faces. Some stand and  some sit at the edge of it , revealing soles. Soles that are dirty, soles worn out, soles in need of change but my soul is filled with hope and optimism for what is to come.
​Millions of soles  pass, all going to different destinations, these soles tend to divide and give status to the ones who wear them, almost highlighting the economic power one group has over another.  The human ladder defines us, slowly moving while soles step on one another to reach the top. We must never forget the position of a sole does not matter , the New York City concrete devours  all soles, in the end we are all bare , with one differentiation : our souls.