Smiity sat at the kitchen table of his cramped Chicago apartment.  The sink is stacked with dirty dishes, the counter is filthy, and the floor looks like it hasn’t be scrubbed in years.  A cockroach skitters from the corner and pauses by the foot of the table long enough to catch Smiity’s eye.  He sighs and tried to ignore the miserable state of his life.  The cockroach turns and makes a line straight for the stove.

Some twiddling Thelonious Monk song was blaring from the radio in the living room.  The piano always bothered him in a way nothing else quite could.  Everyone was just so damn… cheerful… listening to the same crap over and over again and again.

It seemed like the walls were closing in.  His eye twitched as the radio turned over to an Earl Hines song he always reviled.

“To hell with this, I need some air.” 

Smiity grabbed his hat and rushed out his front door and down the stairs.  Once he reached sunlight, a cool breeze off Lake Michigan wafted past.  Much better to be outside… and the breeze doesn’t go this far inland very often.  Maybe today isn’t going to be so miserable.

There’s a newspaper stand off of North and Kedzie right by the park.  His morning ritual every day for the past year would be to buy a paper and sit at one of the benches by the lagoon reading the headlines.  The clerk at the kiosk knew the routine by this point and had the morning edition ready to hand off the moment Smiity flipped a coin on the counter.  A short walk later, he found a secluded seat and opened the paper.

-

ROOSEVELT ASKS FOR POWER TO REFORM COURTS

Boring political crap.  Everyone’s beat to hell… hardly able to rub two pennies together these days.

HITLER ABOLISHES OPPOSING POLITICAL PARTIES AFTER REICHSTAG FIRES

That ain’t going to end well…

WORLDS FAIR TO OPEN IN CHICAGO

Great… tourists.

-

Ever since those damn prohibition goons made his job at distillery effectively illegal, Smiity had been down on his luck.  A year ago, his beloved Virginia died in a car accident… God rest her soul.  Now as he sat there reading the papers, the gears started turning.  No wife.  No kids.  No job.  An apartment he can’t afford, let alone muster the energy to clean.  What has he really got to lose? 

He looks up from his paper and sees a fruit cart parked directly in front of him.  The fruit looks… unappetizing at best and most of it looks downright rotten.  Something stinks.  Usually fruit carts are run by some scrawny street urchin, not a fella that looks this tough. 

After a few minutes a ‘customer’ arrives.  The customer is awfully well-dressed for this neighborhood… what’s going on?  After a minute of bland pleasantries, the customer pulls a thick wad of cash out of a jacket pocket and quickly exchanges it for a slim package neatly wrapped in butcher’s paper.

“That’s a lot of cabbage,” Smiity mutters... perhaps a little too loudly.

((Feel free to pick a role or something different and jump right in. :)  This is my first RP post here... Feedback via PM would be great!))

The tough looking fruit cart pusher sniffed, then stuffed the cash quickly into a section of the cart. He looked around, all the while trying to act nonchalant. Moments later another well dressed individual passed by, and the same routine. Small talk, an exchange of some sort then more lousy acting. Lucky he pushed a cart as his day job, otherwise if he were an actor, he'd probably end up pushing a cart as his day job.

The man squinted as he noticed Smiity, looked around, then edged the cart a little closer. The goon had a scrunched up face, the look of someone who wasn't too pleased with life in general, and it seemed he also wasn't too pleased Smiity was in close proximity. Or maybe the cart just stunk that bad it forced his face to be that way, whatever the case, he was now only feet from Smiity and didn't look too pleased.

After a scratch of his chin, he threw out a sentence.

"What you looking at?"

Smiity weighed his options as he peeked over his newspaper at the man.  The cart pusher looked like he’s seen and won more than his fair share of battles.  He sure doesn’t have the look of someone to mess with…

He thinks to himself, his mind racing.  Do I change the subject and spout some nonsense about the weather and hurry off?  Should I confront this jerk and try to scare him off?  He is in –my- neighborhood, after all, and I sure as hell haven’t seen his ugly mug around before.  On the other hand, I could take a beating.  Or get a nasty case of lead poisoning.

Suddenly, and idea enters his mind.  It’s far from perfect, but it’s not like my life has taken me great places up to this point.

Smiity cracks a sideways grin and stands to speak to the cart pushing goon.  He puts on his best used car salesman smile and take a step towards the cart pusher.

“I ain’t sure who you are, but it doesn’t take an egghead to see you’re not selling top quality produce.  And I’m sure you’ll agree with me on this one that it’s not my business what you’re doing.  But… if you’ll hear me out for just a minute, I’ll tell you why I’m worth listening to.

“I sit at this same park bench at the same time every morning reading my papers.  I like my routines, it’s comforting to see the world run by like a set of clockwork gears.  Same thing, day after day.  You see?  Well, one thing about routines is that you can expect the same thing every day.  For example… you.  You show up outta nowhere today and break up my routine.  Maybe that’s good, maybe that’s bad… we’ll see.”

Smiity pauses to gauge the temperature of his audience before continuing.  He neatly folds the newspaper and flags it casually in front of the goon.

“I read in these papers last month that our friends in the Chicago Police Department are putting foot patrols in our fine city’s parks after residents complained that, and I’m paraphrasing here, ‘shady looking individual were seen repeatedly using the parks to conduct illegitimate business.’  Now, I’m sure you’re just selling apples and oranges, so there’s nothing here to worry about.

“Now, remember that bit about routines from a minute ago?  Two weeks ago, I start seeing one of CPD’s Finest walking the pathways.  A young fella, fresh face.  Too young to lose that uptight sense of morality and exchange it for a deep-seated desire for self-preservation, if you get my drift.”

Smiity glances at his battered old pocket watch.

“Well, it looks like in just about three minutes, our friend from the CPD is going to round that corner around the lagoon.  He’ll come around and see you’re little business establishment… and he might have a few questions if you’re still around.”

With that, Smiity tucks the newspaper under his arm and turns to leave.  After taking two steps, he pauses and tilts his head.  He tears off a corner of newspaper and pencils in a telephone number.

“Here, take this and give it to your boss.  Let him know I said ‘You’re Welcome’.  Tell whoever calls to ask for a Mr. Smith… but everyone calls me Smiity.”

He turns to walk away again and leisurely strolls away enjoying the pleasant lake breeze.