The city beggar (Weekend freewrite)

I woke suddenly, a deep rumbling shaking the house. ‘Not again’, I muttered instinctively, although, truth be told, I was looking forward to some change. Last time Old Pops had ordered a complete makeover of his domain my house ended up in the shitty part of town and it took me three quarters of an hour to walk to the novelty shop where I worked. On top of that, the majestic trees Pops decided would look well on the gentle slope that led to the hills meant there was barely any sun in my garden and all the plants came out a sickly yellow. Not that I would spend time in the garden since as of the last rearrangement I was next door neighbors with Miss Cornelia and her ever growing pack of dogs. Horrible little mongrels that slept in shifts just to make sure there’s a constant barking driving everybody on the street crazy.
As I peered through the curtains I saw there were two of Old Pops huge landscaping machines hard at work. Nobody was allowed out the house at such times, to avoid nasty accidents like the one twenty years ago when an elderly matron on her way to church got an express ticket to meet her maker as that whole street was in the process of being transformed in a heart-shaped lake filled with exotic electric green fish.
A change was to be expected. It was generally the case when Old Pops came back from one of his foreign trips. Sir Reginald Poppington was easily bored, not surprising if you had the misfortune to spend more than five minutes in the company of Lady Esmeralda Poppington, a skinny woman with a face like an old fig who somehow managed to look down upon anyone even if she was barely five feet tall, platform shoes included. For his part, Old Pops was a jolly sort of fellow with a laughter that can accurately be described as infectious since his entourage of assistants and special advisers tended to erupt in hearty guffaws every time the old man said something funny. Not that anyone could remember him ever saying something truly funny, but you could easily tell by the way he raised his voice he was coming up with a joke. Actually that was quite funny to watch - all the grown men in the room suddenly pricking their years and hanging on his every word just to be sure they don’t miss the punchline.
There was no joking around when a big landscaping project was set in motion. Sir Poppington would spend as many hours as it took, his fat behind plopped in a chair by the tallest window in the tower. Carefully drawn plans were laid on the desk beside him and although he was no architect Old Pops followed the complex operation moving his fat index over the map. No detail was to be ignored or his glorious design would be ruined. Like the catastrophe seven years ago when they simply forgot the small road that led from the gate of the domain to the town square was to be paved with salmon pink stones. Had to start all over again the next day, by which time Old Pops wanted a circus tent in the middle of the town, complete with flying elephants, because no one had ever seen such a thing before. Or after, as the only two specimens they could find on such short notice plunged to their death and the only thing the elaborate silk wings were good for was to tastefully cover the bloody mess.

His wealth was very great, and was derived chiefly from the booming tourism industry. People from far and wide were attracted to visit the ever changing city. Not just once. The most loyal came every time a makeover was announced. It was a brilliant idea. A city like, say, Paris - well, you’ve seen it once, you know it, you have pictures and you can smile knowingly when somebody mentions it. But Mirabilis was always different. The alley full of majestic angels heralding the Second Coming isn’t there any more, replaced by an as accurate as possible copy of an Italian Renaissance street. This is not some random example, I grew up on such a street and my great-uncle Pinkus was the embodiment of the great Leonardo. The resemblance wasn’t too great and he could only mumble a few Italian words, but he spent hours stroking his truly impressive beard, a preoccupied look on his face. It might sound fun, but it most definitely wasn’t. On warm summer days we had to sneak to the house of an aunt living in the modern quarters to have a decent shower.
The trouble with Old Pops was that you never knew what was going to happen and he never asked whether you’re happy with your new life. All we can do is put up with whatever befalls us and wait for the next episode.
I was glad I no longer had to work at the novelty shop which dealt mainly in cheap souvenirs of the city in its present form until I learned we were now an agrarian community where we toiled the land and treated our guests to freshly churned butter with homemade bread. Now, milking a cow, that can’t be that hard. At least, that’s what I thought until the outraged animal turned to look me in the eye and kicked me hard, breaking my shoulder blade. Not to worry, I was assigned the part of the town beggar. That didn’t seem like much, sitting on the side of the street, with an empty box for charity between my legs. After a couple of days I got used to the stench of my work costume and I took to severely water down the rum bottle I was required to drink from at regular intervals. The work didn’t bother me much until I realized no one in town would talk to the city beggar. My old pal Lukas walked by without even a quick nod and my own brother Jeremy threatened to call the cops on me when I showed up at his door one night.

The horse whinnied and a good thing he did so I bolted awake and rolled out of the way. Most nights I took refuge in the new cemetery with simple wooden crosses carrying obscure religious references, but that night I stumbled and fell in the middle of the road. I won’t lie to you, I was sloshed. That trick with the rum I decided it was stupid, why waste precious liquor provided to me freely? If I was to be the town drunk might as well enjoy myself. Not like the townsfolk would think less of me, I was already invisible. If it weren’t for the clueless tourists I wouldn’t have had anyone to speak to all day. I was a fine looking beggar and maybe they felt like they needed to learn my story, something to impress their friends when they got back from the trip. ‘The poor man lost his mind when he got home from the war and found out his wife was now living with another man’. At other times I put more of an effort in my sad story and my two precious kids had been stolen by rabid wolves that raided the village regularly. At this point I nodded ominously towards the wooded hills. 'And my wife, mad with grief, had poisoned herself the day before I got home’. Sometimes I even managed to cry, solemn tears washing down my dirty cheeks. The pay was good, only the city guards took everything at the end of the day. Not that I could have spent it anyway, as no decent hard-working villager would have anything to do with the likes of me. They had their own acts to perform and respectability was of the essence. Old Pops had no time for slackers and he took great pride escorting select groups of tourists to see the prosperous farms on his estate.
Some were so impressed they begged to be allowed to live there, but Pops wouldn’t hear of it. ‘As soon as a farm becomes available I’ll let you know’, he told them.
Too bad, if you ask me. I would have loved to see one of these ignorants waking up to the sound of heavy machinery tearing everything down and throwing your life upside down. I can’t wait for that day to come. Can’t get any worse than the city drunk, can it?

Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge, the weekend three prompt special edition! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.

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