George arrived at the row house on Delancey that he was due to call home. Even as a former East Ender, he was surprised at the filthiness of the Bowery. Every nook and cranny of the neighborhood seemed stuffed with grime. Outside the row house, he could hear babies screaming in the heat. Jugglers and poets stood at every corner, begging for money for their services. Flies and mosquitoes hung over everything.
George’s lodgings were no cleaner. The row house was a straight line of rooms, each about the size of a large box. Tenants shared a kitchen at the end of each floor, but it was a mess of disgusting, unwashed dishes. The bathroom wasn’t even worth considering.
George sat at a desk table and took off his coat, removing the copy of Bleak House and the letter and placing them on the table. As he began to settle in, George heard a knock on the door. George opened it, and a woman stood outside his new place.
She had lengthy, stringy blonde hair that was discolored by the sun. Her clothes were brown and baggy, patched together. Her eyes had a crazed expression, but she seemed friendly.
“New neighbor!” she said, as soon as the door opened. She held a small loaf of bread in her hand and graciously gave it to George.
George held the bread, confused. “Er …”
“Just a little present from a neighbor. Cost me m’ day’s earnings!”
A richer man might have given the bread back. But George was already used to extreme poverty. He accepted the gift graciously.
The woman walked into the room. “I am Millie. Short for Millicent, but don’t call me that, please. Hey, what is that?” She pointed to the book.
“It is a book I brought from home. Bleak House by Charles Dickens.”
“Wow, a book!” she exclaimed. She opened the book and peaked through the pages. “Thick, at that.”
“It is. It’s a long book.”
“Y’ must be a smart fella to read a book like this. You sure you live here?”
“I do, but I’m from England.”
Millie took a second to process this. “So that’s why your voice is so strange.”
George smiled. “Right.”
Millie put the book down. “I have to tell my friend Muggs about this. Hey, Muggs!” she shouted down the hall.
A few seconds later, a short man with a long, unruly mustache appeared in the doorway.
“Millie!”
“Muggs! Meet the new neighbor.”
George held out his hand for Muggs to shake. Muggs missed the cue and instead let out a large burp.
“Muggs!” Millie shouted again.
“Sorry, boss,” Muggs said, embarrassed.
“So what do you do, Mr. Muggs?” George asked, trying to be polite.
“Call me Muggs. Me an’ Millie here run a sort of business.”
“We’re haberdashers, Muggs,” Millie said.
“We’re trash scavengers,” Muggs retorted. “I got a whole bunch of buttons, ribbons, and scraps of fabric, if you ever need a patching up. Heck, I’ll give you a first patch session free of charge!”
“Actually,” George said. “I have to leave around now. There’s a deadline I need to attend to.”
Muggs and Millie stared at George blankly, not entirely sure what a deadline meant.
Suddenly yet another man’s voice came from around the corner. “Vagrants! Leave this man’s quarters before I call the police again!”
Before George had a chance to understand what was going on, Millie and Muggs had fled the scene. In their place stood a younger, heavy-set man. He was carrying a set of papers.
“Mr. Choogart?”
“Yes,” George said.
“I am Mr. Nordler, the landlord. Rent is five dollars per month, to be paid promptly on the first of each month. If you are late, I will not hesitate to call the police.”
“Understood.”
“Are you a journalist, Mr. Choogart?”
“Yes.”
“Lucky for you that I have respect for your vocation. However, you should know that the Times has sent journalists to this location before. Not many could handle the lifestyle.”
George again recalled his childhood on the East End. “I can.”
“We will see. Here are your papers. I want them signed and on my desk within the hour.”
Nordler left. George had no time to reflect on the oddness of his neighbors. As he had said, he had a deadline to catch.
George spent the next several hours walking around the neighborhood, looking for a story. Now that he had gotten used to the pace of the Bowery, he was starting to like it more. Everywhere he went, there was some form of cheap entertainment. Vaudeville, circus acts, and freak shows. No place ever seemed to close for the evening. In fact, the neighborhood seemed to become even livelier as the sun went down.
George was ready to return home and begin writing when he noticed a big wooden sign outside a large saloon. It read WOODRAT. George recalled the name immediately—it was where his new friend Steve Oakley said he had found work.
George made his way toward the doors. Just as he was about to walk in, he heard a loud crash. A man shouted; then a few people shouted with him. Then there was a sound of scuffling and fighting.
George barely had a chance to see what was going on inside before the saloon’s heavy door was pushed outward. Two men in a wrestle grip barreled outside. George was right in their way, and he did not have time to move. The men collided with George. The three of them fell into a patch of mud outside the Woodrat, writhing and punching each other.