Floyd could feel the cold creeping up through the metal floor to between the two boards beneath his boots, as he spooned a scoop

of chili from the crockpot - that sat on the stove - into a ceramic bowl; the man didn't do plastic.  Neither did he do the stove; didn't quite trust the wiring in that corner of the place - nor did he trust the light switch in the bathroom.  It sometimes threw sparks - so he had run an extension from the bedroom to a small lamp which sat upon the counter "space" beside the bathroom sink.  Floyd wasn't complaining.  The tin can - with the stove-front sag in the floor -  was close to where he worked, and for $600 a month, he managed to have atleast a $20 or three left over from previous paychecks.  

Being within two or three miles from the grocery store, sometimes he walked to and from work, but with november coming on, he'd be putting gas in his car more often.  On paper, the store wasn't much for fringe benefits, but working there kept him in things like oranges, plums, taters - though a tad past their prime - day-or-two old bread, dented cans of carrots and green beans.  In short, he ate healthy - for a fraction.  Unlike, the several weeks of take-outs in his car.  

He placed the bowl upon a plate and took it over to the linoleum table - it looked like a relic from an early 1980s yard sale, but no complaints.  The place, dingy as it was, was better, by far, than living in other people's space, under their petty-ars'd rules - wasn't like he was sloppy, loud, or generally obnoxious.  Reaching into the drawer, he pulled out a spoon for the soup, and one for the applesauce.  From a napkin holder, sitting on the counter, he grabbed a faded green cloth napkin, and laid it on his lap.

This is how floyd had been raised; his daddy, being a long distance trucker, family meals were special.  And yeah, his mom grew up in england.  He put down his phone and took a taste.  Neither was it a boast, on his part, concerning the chili; it was THAT good - and so was his vegetable beef stew.  Had the oven been trustworthy, he'd a baked some bread - but such would have to wait for better lodging.  Scrolling through his email, he came across a link to a video on how to fix a ...

"MY HOUSE, MY RULES!"

Oh brother, who th' ... was she kidding!  The place, just like every other in the court,  belonged to the landlord.  From within the neighboring tin, two voices quarreled, waxing shrill.  Poor people... floyd raised his eyebrows, ignoring the stompings and cursings.  Dave Ramsey was so right, when he said something about state of mind.   A car door slammed shut, followed by a somewhat choking roar of a car engine - one that sounded of wanting two quarts of oil; the dufus, would be the first to throw a fit - blaming anyone from the newsboy to the illuminati - when the car decided to quit.  

Uh, bruh!  Floyd needed to get over to wally-world for a set of real curtains; the ones hanging on the window, next to the table, weren't getting it.  What was it with obese women and shorts?  At this time of year?  The woman, flipped the departed vehicle another hand signal, bellowed out a phrase or two, then stormed back the walkway to "her house."  In all fairness, however - along with her need to lose a few tons, she needed, even more, to gain a few brain cells, and throw the bum out.