Unlucky

By Myles Jeffery

The hot, burning sun crushed down on me and seared my old, dark skin. I breathed heavily, the polluted air pushed down my dry, hot, throat. My dry, rain jacket hung down over my eyes, and I could only see the people’s feet steeping on the stove-like sidewalk. I held the old Starbucks coffee cup weakly in my hand, begging for change. Every now and then, a quarter or a dime will fall into the bottom of the cup.

My story: “Your monthly rent is late two weeks, Anthony. Pay it or get out.” Mr. Shneebly said.
“Please, I beg you, god hasn’t been kind to me. I lost my job, my girlfriend, my dignity. Even my hair, look it’s falling out.” I begged, showing him my hair.
“No! Too many times, Anthony. Too many times your rent is late, I’m losing all my own money!”
“Please sir, I’ll have it to you tomorrow, I swear!”
“NO! GET OUT! PACK YOUR THINGS AND GET OUT!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Then, he kicked me hard in the groin and shoved me into my bedroom. Horrified, I packed the few things I had into my backpack and ran down the creaky stairs, out of the building.

I ran down the street, confused on where to go. I had nowhere, I realized, so there, on the spot, I sat down on the cold, harsh sidewalk. Laying my back on the wall, I took out my diary and the pencil I had used down to the nub.
I wrote:

Dear Diary,
Mr. Shneebly, the man who I pay my rent to, brought down an anvil of anger on my shoulders for not paying my rent. Ever since I lost my job as a pizza delivery guy, luck has failed me.