Suicide Lane Cafe

145 Hudson Street

Alexander Will leaned against the cold wall, his hands curled in his lap harmlessly as he watched the turbulent river roll beneath the bridge. It might be dank and grafitti-festooned, but living beneath a bridge offered some great views.

A particularly violent gust of wind howled, and he started. Alexander frowned and jammed his hands into the pockets of his Salvation Army coat. It was nearly seven pm, he noted, glancing at a beaten up watch. At seven sharp he had a different place to sleep, somewhere were he could catch the commuting rush and maybe beg for some money. By five in the morning, he would be back here under the bridge.

He wasn't stupid. He knew if the cops caught him again, he was screwed. Homeless people were the scum of the city, and if found in the nicer neighbourhoods, rounded up and dumped in the slums where they swept away the more unpleasant things.

Alexander got up with a grunt, dusting off his body. He folded up the thin sheet of newspaper he called a blanket and tucked it under his arm. He caught the eye of the doorman across the street and offered a respectful tilt of the forehead. Even from this distance he could see Randy's pearly grin.

Ah, Randy, Alexander mused as he shuffled down the street. Nice guy, that one. Sometimes when he got back to the bridge he would find a ten dollar bill or so tucked under a rock or into a crevice. Without asking he knew Randy was the cause of this.

He shook his head in self-loathing. Randy didn't know how easy he had it. All the man had to do was open doors for residents, smile at them and pretend to be interested. A monkey could do that. Oh, if only he could show Randy what it was like to be him. Pushing fifty and still unemployed with no family and no home, all because of a mistake with drugs and alcohol.

Randy Levine watched Alex trot down the street dejectedly. He frowned. He wished he could help Alex more – his pop was Alex's age, and it just about broke his heart to imagine his father in a similar situation.

A taxi pulled up in front of the apartment building. He rushed to open the door and Mrs Thorne stepped out, tall and lanky. He grasped an umbrella in his left hand as he hurried to the door, sheltering the both of them – but mostly her – from the light drizzle.

She strode into the foyer without so much as a backward glance. Randy scoffed. The woman was a psychologist, catering to rich socialites whose biggest problems were bitchy mother in laws and whether or not they should have liposuction. For listening to prattle, she earned over a hundred thousand annually.

Randy shook his head, resuming his place by the door. He shared a commiserating glance with the receptionist, who smiled weakly. Now that was a good job. Sitting behind the desk all day, doing nothing more than talking to people for more than a few seconds. Another year and maybe Randy could request to be a receptionist instead. It would be nice not to have to stand all day.

The rain grew heavier, pelting the ground in torrents. "The Wall Street Journal, Mrs Thorne," Jack Lynch said, offering a folded newspaper to the stiff lady. She took it and walked off without a word. He huffed, mildly offended. These people thought that rolling in the money meant they were on top of the world. He bet Mrs Thorne was perfectly content in ripping money off the rich – not that they had any problem handing it over. Why they never smiled was beyond him.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He scowled. His girlfriend of three years was calling him. Again.

"What?" he asked curtly.

"Honey," she whined. He cringed. "You need to propose soon. Darla just asked why her friends have parents are married and she doesn't. I don't want her growing up in that kind of environment! I think if you propose now, we can get married by next summer in time for the next parent teacher-"