I came here from South Dakota. I was stuffed between hundreds of other men, all scratching at a low job at the Oil Service Station. I know I am not going to get picked. They want young, hard workers, not an old man with frail bones and withered faith. Anna is deathly ill back in our little shack. My granddaughter Sarah is taking care of her. She shouldn't have to live with this burden, in this time of despair. She is only 9 years old, her parents left to search for jobs, their farm was taken from them. She is such a beauty, my little angel. It saddens me to watch her grow up so fast.
It’s so cold out here, and my coat is battered from winter snow and sharp rock beds. My hat is worn, stepped on and ripped. My fingers swollen and red from the freezing wind can barely move. It is a poor time for an old man like me, no money, no home, and no job. I picked up few tasks here and there, shoveling food at a cafeteria, or mending clothing, but it doesn't provide us with a healthy living.
I hope the girls are okay, Anna said she was feeling worse today. Sarah does her best to stay strong, but I can tell she is afraid. She cries herself to sleep at night, and every morning, when she wakes up, she asks if her parents are back yet. I haven't heard word from them for a year and half now, but I know they are okay. I don’t know what Sarah would do if she lost them for good. I don’t know what I would do.
I haven’t eaten since dinner last night and my stomach is louder than the shuffled feet and echoed conversations of the hundreds of men standing around me. It was growling so loud, the man next to me offered up a piece of his bread. It is a warm feeling to know that people still hold pure values in these desperate times. I accepted the offer and nibbled at the small quarter-sized chunk of stale bread. I saved the rest for Anna.
A swarm of dust blew over the crowd, I was pulled down by the man beside me. The rest of the men followed his lead and ducked to the ground, shading their eyes. My feet were numb, only covered by socks with holes where my big toes stuck out. When the dust subsided, I picked myself up with a sore back and weak knees, and hobbled off to the fence.
Two men in black suits and brown hats appeared in the center of the crowd. One of the men was screaming at people to quiet down and listen. He stepped on top of a wooden crate and put an orange street cone to his mouth. He announced the names of four men that would be receiving jobs. “Timothy Fowler, David Garrett, Howard Thompson, and George Wilson.” He motioned for the four men follow him. My name was not called. The two men returned to the factory building with their new employees, and the rest of us shuffled to the road, and began walking down the dirt path that lead back to our makeshift camp.
I recognized a few people, men I used to work with, neighbors, people who went to my church. I noticed the store clerk that used to run the shop down the street from my house, he was limping on his left leg. I took a closer looked and noticed that his entire foot was a mixture of mottled blues and purples. He glanced over at me and I ducked away. Poor guy, he was a skippy fella, always smiling. Never had anything bad to say about anybody, just happy. All the time. Now, looking at him like this, made me realize the truth about the Depression. It destroyed everybody, inside and out. It was hopeless. As much as I tried, I couldn’t bring myself out of this rut that we dug ourselves into. I was stuck, and so was everyone else.
I returned home that night, with no job, and no food, aside from some bread crumbs in my pocket. I walked through the door to see that Sarah was on the floor, curled up with her head in her lap, crying and screaming. I wrapped my arms around her quivering body and asked her what was wrong, but her words were muffled by her sobs. She finally managed to lift her little finger and point to the back room. Anna! I ran to the back of our scrap metal house and fell to my knees. Her body lay flat. Her chest did not move up and down as her lungs filled with air, her skin was as pale as the snow that soaked her sheets and just as cold, and her hair rested just below her shoulders, dangling off the makeshift bed. Fifty years, we were together. Fifty beautiful, wonderful, magical years, all gone. A single tear fell from my eye, rolled down my cheek, and plopped on her hand, filling the creases of her palm. Goodbye Anna, I love you.