Everything Maurice Owned

During the coldest winter New York City had ever known, a man named Maurice lived on its streets with everything he owned in a single suitcase. He had only recently become homeless, left to face the bitter winds that howled through the square. For two weeks, he had slept on cardboard boxes and rusted iron benches. The only cushion he had was a soaked cardboard box, a patch of cold snow, and a suitcase filled with enough clothes to survive the winter.

Through those wild weeks, a small hole had appeared at the bottom of his suitcase. When Maurice discovered it, he tore through his clothes in panic.

His wife’s photograph was still there. And so was I. Curled in the lining. A rat. Maurice stared at me for a long moment.

“You can’t stay out here, I suppose,” he finally said.

That’s how I came to live in his suitcase. My name—well… Maurice just called me Dirty Rat.

So I stayed.

Every night, he’d find food, he’d offer me a slice, and every time the weather was harsh, he would snuggle me inside his coat. When it was time to sleep, he tucked me beside the picture of his wife and slipped me into his spare sock. “Good night, my friend,” he’d say to me as we both shut our eyes.

I lived in this suitcase.

He lived in this suitcase.

“Move along,” a voice called distant in our dreams. “I said, up, Old man!”

Wack!

Maurice let out a cry, then a groan as he slowly sat up. I peered through my hole as the officer tucked his baton away. He shooed us from the street where we lay, and the sun was blinding on the white snow.

“We’re going now,” Maurice said. He hunched over, grabbed the suitcase, and closed up his long coat.

I could hear his stomach growling, and I could feel how tired he was. “Maurice?” I called.

“Not now, Dirty Rat,” he sighed as he shuffled off.

We tucked into an alley, dark and damp, but at least the ground was frozen, not covered in snow. We’d be dry here.

Crawling out of the hole, I nestled close to his chest.

He burped. It smelled of bile. Without a thought, I hopped back down and scurried across the ice-covered pavement.

“Goodbye…Dirty Rat.” I heard him call.

“I’ll be back!” I said. I saw his hand fall to his side in the saddest wave.

Hopping through the dumpsters, I looked for food. I ate my fill, but when I was full, I tugged on the crust of pizza that had been thrown out days before. The cold preserved it nicely in its box. I couldn’t say much for the debris on top.

Between my teeth, I dragged it from the dumpster, hopping down and running back to him.

His eyes were closed.

“I’m back,” I said, mouth full.

He didn’t move.

I dropped the crust in his lap and hopped on his chest. “Oof!”

“I said I’m back!”

“Dirty…” He looked down and met my eyes. The ones that begged for love, for food. For peace. He smiled.

“Thank you, my friend.”

I curled along his neck again and watched as he ate ever so slowly, savoring every bite. On the last, he offered it to me.

“No, thank you,” I said.

He smiled. He insisted. “You cannot be as hungry as I, my friend.”

I took the smallest nibble, then slipped back into the hole to watch Maurice finish the rest.

We stayed here for a while until the sun began to set, the winds picked up, and the temperature dropped. I peeked out at Maurice, who was too cold to sleep. “Come on then,” I said.

I snuck out of the hole and began to scurry through the alley.

“Wait for me, my friend!” He said he was moving more slowly than usual, and his breath was getting caught in the cold.

“I know a place not far from here. It has shelter.”

Maurice followed me into the night, seven blocks from where we were. The wind and snow made the walk brutal. Each step sank deeper into the drifts. The seven blocks took nearly half an hour.

The city lights twinkled then dimmed, and by the time they arrived, the shelter was full.

“You can’t stay here tonight, sir.” The old woman said.

“Please. It’s cold. I have nowhere to go.” Maurice shivered.

“I have no room for you here.”

“I beg you. Please. Let me sleep on the floor. I will clean, I will work for my spot. All I need is to warm my hands.” He showed the lady his hands, losing color. No longer were they pink and covered in dirt; they were the color of the snow, pigment slowly leaving him, lips slowly turning blue.

“If you stay…”

“Yes! I will do anything.”

“Alright,” she said.

The heat from the shelter stung his face, and the smell was rotten and sour. It didn’t matter. Not tonight. Tonight, they had a place to rest.

“Dirty Rat?” Maurice called.

“I’m here!” I said, peeking from the suitcase.

He smiled. He was able to change into fresh clothes from his suitcase, the ones he wore had dried by the fire, and he too defrosted. In the night light of the fireplace’s glow, he stared at the picture of his wife.

“She was my everything,” he said to me. “I felt so lost the day she passed. I couldn’t work. I lost the house.” He sniffled. “My children, they don’t know where I am!”

I shared the moment with him. I didn’t say a thing. I knew what that was like. I’d been through it time and time again. I was here for my friend.

I watched as his eyes grew heavy in the night. For the first time since I met him, I knew he would get a good night’s sleep.

By the morning, the old woman had given us grace. Maurice was only a bit better; the winter was too much on him. He needed so much care. Much more than I could give.

He coughed with each step, then stumbled. He was weak, frail by now. We’d found another iron bench to rest, and this was when I knew…Maurice didn’t have much left to give.

He stared at his photo again, his suitcase open beside him, and I was sitting on his clothes. I could see how much his heart ached for his wife, for his family, for his life again. I’d seen this many times before.

The wind began to pick up, sweeping the photo from his frail hands. “No!” He stood and tried to go after it. But I was much quicker.

I darted from the suitcase and weaved in and out of foot traffic, causing passersby to screech and scream. “A Dirty Rat!”

“That I am!” I’d say.

The photo dipped and dived, and with a leap over a metal grate, I was able to snatch it between my teeth.

“I got it!”

I ran back to Maurice, who was slumped on the bench. I brought it up to his chest.

“Here you go,” I said.

“Dirty Rat.” He smiled weakly and touched the edge of the suitcase. “All I thought I had left was that photograph,” he whispered. His hand rested gently on my back. “Turns out I had a friend.”

Maurice slept longer that night than he ever had before. I curled inside the suitcase beside the photograph and kept watch. The wind rattled the loose latch, and snow began to gather along the edges of the bench. Winter always takes them eventually. But this one had not died alone.