Chapter 17 - March 13th, 1931 3:06 P.M.
681 Words
There were about twelve soup kitchens in Seattle, so finding the soup kitchen proved a massive struggle. I might as well have been trying to find a needle in a haystack. Or maybe trying to find a shred of sanity in this mad world. This planet is a giant psychiatric hospital, corporations are the nurses, and we’re the goddamn patients.
The least she could have done was give me an address… I don’t even know where to start looking. It’s going to be nightfall before I find what I’m looking for.
Not knowing my directions around town, I tried going around nearby bus stops to find one with a map. It took me around five tries to finally find one, and it was the very last one there. Grabbing it, I looked through all the soup kitchens and decided to first go to the one called St. Teresa’s that was closest to me.
Walking through the dense crowds, I could make out a faded poster on a wall that read ELECT HOOVER, THE TIME FOR CHANGE IN AMERICA IS NOW!
Yeah right, isn’t he one of the worst presidents or something? It’s Ulysses S. Grant who should be up there; he was quite underrated; it’s not his fault he had a cabinet full of crooks. Grant was an honest man, something that is rare in politics.
On my way to the first soup kitchen, I smelled the scent of rubbing alcohol coming from one of the buildings and practically checked it out before a voice inside my head told me not to. That was practically the only reasonable choice I had made during my travel to 1931.
How desperate could you guys be for alcohol?!
After finally arriving at St. Teresa’s, to my shock, the place had all but burned down, leaving nothing but its charred remains standing. Whatever it was back in the day, it had clearly lost all of its glory, and all that remained was ash.
Seeing a police officer nearby, I asked him if he knew what had happened to the kitchen. I don’t like cops too much, but life would be a lot worse without them. They arrested my uncle for disorderly conduct during one of his episodes; they kept him in a cell overnight until he sobered up. Since he was a teenager, he’s had behavioral problems; my mother told me he once committed armed robbery as a minor and spent three years in prison for it. I still love him and all, but he’s not exactly a good person. I probably got all my negative qualities from him, come to think of it.
“You ain’t heard about it? They say some madman spilled kerosene all over the place, and it lit up,” he nearly whispered before looking all around as if scared of someone.
“When was this?” I asked, curious about the case.
“‘Bout two days ago, me and my boys got a call about the fire, but by the time we got there, there was nothing left. Rumor has it there was a speakeasy there, and they burned the place down to hide the evidence,” he whispered in my ear.
“Who do you think did it?” I asked curiously.
“Dunno, the kikes probably. They ruin everything. If it was up to me, I’d deport them all. Mr. Ford had the right ideas on how to deal with them,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. My dumbass forgot how hateful the 1930s were. I shouldn’t have been surprised by him casually dropping an ethnic slur, but I was.
“I see… Well, I gotta go, but you stay safe,” I said impatiently. Girls go crazy when you’re even a little late.
“Abyssinia, kid!” he said, waving goodbye.
After wandering around Seattle for what felt like the rest of my life, I caught sight of a dark green uniform and felt my eyes light up instantly.
There you are, shutterbug.
I entered the soup kitchen and sat down by Delilah.
- Writer
