From the Other Side of 'The Street'

Of all H.P. Lovecraft's stories, 'The Street', which was published in 1920, is one of his more controversial. Although he captures the sense of time passing so well; unfortunately it also shows the more negative side of his writing, in particular his racism. Although I think it is less offensive than the ending to 'Medusa's Coil', but I won't go there! To really appreciate my take on this tale it would be better to have read 'The Street'. It is out of copyright and Wikisource has the full text of Lovecraft's story. However, for those who haven't read it, he shows how a street (presumably in Boston) develops from a country lane in Colonial times, becoming a pleasant, prosperous road lined with rose gardens until, around the time of the Civil War with the coming of the industrial revolution, it gradually degenerates into a slum.

Then, and here Lovecraft's racism kicks into high gear, it becomes filled with swarms of hideous, non-WASP foreigners plotting violent revolution against the old order shortly after the First World War. However, before their evil plans come to fruition, all of The Street's buildings collapse at the same time killing the revolutionaries. Afterwards, a wandering poet claims he has seen a vision of the ancient wholesome Georgian street.

According to Daniel Harms, author of The Encyclopedia Cthulhiana, "If someone came up to me and said, 'Hey Daniel, I think H.P. Lovecraft was a wordy, overly-sentimental bigot whose stories don't make much sense,' this would be the last story I would hand to him to convince him otherwise."

This short tale looks at the events on The Street from a different point of view although I'm not sure H.P. Lovecraft himself would have appreciated this. Please note that I have previously published a slightly different version elsewhere on the Web and there is not much eroticism.

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The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Thank for reading and I hope you liked this tale. Please do leave a comment as I read all of them and take them all onboard.

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From the Other Side of 'The Street'.

Slipping through the door, I pushed my way into Petrovitch's Bakery. The smell of unwashed, sweaty bodies -- hot and sour -- together with cheap tobacco overrode the usual yeasty smell of fresh rye bread. I didn't mind as I knew I stunk just as bad, or even worse, as I'd come straight from a ten hour shift at the meat-packers. Some of the men made way for me and I nodded to those I knew. "Vasyl, Yuri," I smiled tiredly.

A group of women, all wearing head-scarves, stood along one wall, those at the back leaning against Petrovitch's white tiles. Nodding apologies to those men I jostled, I made my way over to them. Closer, the women looked exhausted, worn-out and older than their years. Hardly surprising given the hours they slaved in drudgery for nickels and dimes.

Many of them had worked in munitions factories during the Great War -- hard jobs but well paid. But since the end of that terrible conflict, they had mostly been fired and now struggled to support their families with whatever work they could find -- piece-work seamstresses, street sweepers, washer women, cleaners or domestic servants. And they were the fortunate ones. Some, it was hinted, had to earn their living in less wholesome ways, servicing the lusts of equally downtrodden men.

Fortunately, my girlfriend, Rosa, worked as a nanny for a wealthy Anglo woman who treated her half-way decently. She looked round, saw me approach and her tired face lit up with a smile. I took her reddened, work-roughened hand, lifted it to my lips and kissed it. An Old World gesture, but she liked that. We both came from Minsk, a beautiful city in White Russia that neither would see again. With many others, we'd fled savage counter-revolutionaries and Tsarist loyalists fighting against the heroic people's Red Army. Clinging together we crossed Poland and Germany, ending up in Liverpool before scraping together enough funds to brave the storm-tossed Atlantic seeking better lives in the New World. We'd traveled in steerage, crammed in like cattle.

But our hopes were cruelly dashed when our ship docked. The only place we could find to live was herded with our compatriots in terrible, unsanitary slums -- exploited by Anglo landlords who stuffed as many tenants as they could into already overcrowded tenements. These tottering buildings were never designed to hold so many people.

I remembered my first week here. One of the men in the apartment I shared, only one step up from a flop house, took me along to the meat-packers where he worked. The bosses were always looking out for strong men who would work all the hours in a day. Men who could stand up to the daily grind of hard labor. Accidents were common, especially in the stock yards. And for the privilege of coming home filthy and exhausted every day the Anglo owners paid a wage to starve on. Life has to be better than this.

"Is he here?" I asked, breaking away from my thoughts.

Rosa shook her head. "I think he's in with Petrovitch and the committee in the back. He'll be out soon."

We were all here to listen to Klein -- a revolutionary firebrand speaker. Klein had come from Russia to organize a series of strikes and protests about our terrible jobs and living conditions. Like everyone, we had come to America to improve our lives -- not merely to live and work as beasts of burden. The Anglo establishment ground us into the dust but Klein would make them fear us and give in to our just demands.

Other meetings were taking place in the neighborhood this evening -- at the Rifkin School of Modern Economics, the Circle Social Club and the Liberty Café. Our grievances were numerous and widespread and resentment had built up to a point where we could take no more. There was a stir, rippling out from the front of the bakery. I stood on tiptoe, craning my neck to peer above the masses before me. A door leading to smoky backrooms opened.

"Is that him, Leonid?" Rosa hissed.

"I can't tell," I replied. I looked down at her upturned face as she peered through the crush of bodies at the store front. Everyone else's stare was also directed at the front so on an impulse I leaned forwards and kissed her lips. They were dry, chapped by the salt breeze but to me they were delightful. Her lips opened and our tongues sought the others in a stolen moment of pleasure. I pressed her close to my chest and felt her breasts through her linen shirtwaist as I held her to me. My heart soared with love and a warm feeling filled me.

Murmurs, spreading like waves, came from the front of the room. Reluctantly, we broke apart. "Klein," the men said. Over the susurration I heard a scraping sound as a box was dragged out. Then Klein himself stepped up onto Petrovitch's bread counter.

Klein was a short man who looked like he knew hard work. His face was sunburned -- what we could see of it that wasn't hidden beneath a thick, black beard. His deep-set brown eyes seemed to take in everyone in the room at once -- to see us as individuals and also, at the same time, as members of America's downtrodden proletariat.

The murmuring and muttering died away as we all looked up at Klein. Behind him, on the other side of the counter, stood Petrovitch -- with his black beard he looked like a true Russian bear -- as well as some of the rest of the revolutionary committee. Klein spread his arms wide, encompassing us all. Even under his black jacket, I could see he was well muscled.

Rosa squeezed my hand and snuggled up against me. Despite my tiredness, I felt so strong as she leaned into me.

"Workers, you can do without the bosses! Without you no cog can turn!" As many people in the room couldn't speak English; Klein spoke in Russian; not the tongue of our oppressors.

We cheered the start of Klein's speech. No grasping, capitalist bosses, no greedy landlords. Wealth spread evenly. From each according to his abilities; to each according to his needs. That was what the revolutionary committee both demanded and promised. At times impassioned, at others his voice calm and reasonable, he fired up the crowd for tomorrow's day of action.

I looked down at Rosa's upturned face. She had beautiful green eyes set over high cheekbones. Minsk is a cosmopolitan city and I could see several nationalities reflected in her face.

"You'll be careful tomorrow, Leo?" she said. She could speak English better than me but tonight she spoke our mother-tongue.

I nodded, not speaking; wanting to hear what Klein had to say.

Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. The Anglos would be celebrating their revolution but we had nothing to observe. Merely lives of hard, unremitting, back-breaking toil amid overcrowded, unhealthy, unsanitary conditions. We worked like dogs in the smoke and died young out of sight of the sun. In this land of opportunity, we surely deserved better than this.

"Workers," Klein declaimed, "While the bourgeois bosses and bankers play tomorrow, we will rise up. Down tools and strike. We will demand redress for our grievances. We will march through the streets and smash the capitalist system that grinds us down!" His eyes were large with expectation of triumph.

There were cheers at this. We workers had nothing to lose but our chains. For months we had been preparing for this day. The committee had circulated handbills -- in our Cyrillic script -- as well as making placards. The women, Rosa among them, had spent weeks and months embroidering beautiful red banners and flags that would be carried high tomorrow.

Klein told us that revolution wouldn't just happen in this one city. It would be national. Chicago, Pittsburgh, New York and all the way to Los Angeles itself. All the cities of this land from coast to coast where the downtrodden masses struggled would rise as one.

Eventually, Klein wound up his speech. "Comrades, today the capitalist oppressors have their boot heels on our necks. Tomorrow we will throw off their iron shackles and take our places as free men. Demand your rights, comrades. Demand a workers' collective. Tomorrow, we smash the system!"

We cheered fit to raise the roof. Yuri looked back at me. I felt sorry for Yuri. Last year, he had been injured working on the docks when a crate fell on him, crushing his arm. The arm was ruined but he got no compensation, no sick pay and would never work again. Who would hire a cripple when strong men fought for every job? Now he scratched out a living with his push-cart selling apples on street corners. Just another victim of the capitalistic market economy oppressors. Yes, we would change this rotten system and get justice for all victims like Yuri.

Petrovitch the baker spoke afterwards, giving details of assembly times and the routes we would be marching. Eventually, we made our way outside -- but not into fresh air as the wind was blowing a hot stench from the stockyards in our direction.

"We shouldn't have to live like this," Rosa said. A film of sweat made a sheen on her brow. I wanted to kiss it away.

"After tomorrow's day of action, we won't have to," I said. "We'll demand full equality with the Anglos. After all, they were once immigrants, too."

"Do you really think that will happen?" she said, softly. "Look at the chaos back home. Whites against Reds with us ordinary people caught in the middle."

I thought for a moment. "Yes. It will be different here. These Americans are mostly good people and will give into our demands."

"Do you really think so? You don't think they will call out their army and crush us? There's been a lot of troops around here recently -- it's like they know what's going on."

Rosa was right. There had been plenty of olive-drab troops on the streets recently now that the troops were back from the Great War. No doubt the government had its informers among us but their searches had turned up nothing. Our leaders were too wise and cunning to be caught out by the authorities.

I shook my head. "No. They can't stop us. They won't be able to resist us all -- not when we act as one." That was one of Klein's lines.

"They probably have their spies among us," she continued.

"Doesn't matter now," I said with a hard grin. "It's too late to stop us. We rise up tomorrow."

I took her hand and breathed in the night air. Despite the fumes from nearby factories it was good to be outside. Some people stood loitering outside Petrovitch's bakery while others were heading back to their lodgings to grab a few hours rest before tomorrow dawned. We walked away from the bakery and turned down a narrow side street. A broken fence faced onto an abandoned lot which had been taken over by weeds and scrub bushes but was littered by discarded trash.

On an impulse, I dragged her through a hole in the broken fence and carefully, not wanting to twist an ankle or worse, took a few steps into the darkness beyond. There were a few broken down chairs near a couple of boxes used as card tables by those men unable or unwilling to find work. As we made my way over I stumbled over some trash and a couple of empty bottles clinked underfoot. There was a heavy smell of spoiled wine. I hoped any rats kept away.

I sat and pulled Rosa down onto my lap. She gave a little squeak of protest but stayed still. The chair groaned under our weight and I hoped it wouldn't collapse. I threw an arm around her waist, drawing her into me, and kissed her fully on the lips. After a moment's hesitation, she responded, her breath coming raggedly. I tasted her breath, her tongue, the bread roll she must have eaten as she waited for Klein to speak. In the veiling darkness, I grew bold and my kisses more ardent. Rosa melted into my arms, her passion the equal of mine. My hand strayed upwards and lay upon her firm breast and I felt her heart beating beneath. She stirred but made no move to push it away. Emboldened, I undid a couple of buttons on her shirtwaist and slipped my hand inside. Only her thin, well-washed chemise protected her modesty and my hand cupped her breast feeling her body heat beneath the thin material. I stroked it, caressing it until my fingertips found her nipple and I gently teased it until it stood out firm like a little bullet. Rosa moaned a little as her nipple sent delicious sensations to her brain.

Still fondling her soft, warm breast I released her waist and reached up under her skirt. Gathering up the material, my hand found her knee and then upwards to her smooth, bare thigh above her stocking-top. I stroked her skin and then tried to make my way upwards, hoping against hope to find that moist cleft between her legs I had heard so much about. I wanted this so much, so desperately. My breath came in ragged gasps as I searched ever higher.

Suddenly, Rosa sprang upwards off my lap. Her face a pale oval blur in the starlight.

"No," she said. "Not now, not yet, Leo. Wait until we're married and we can afford a place of our own. Even if it is just one room it will be ours."

"When can we even hope to afford that?" I said, disappointment in my voice.

"After the revolution," she said simply. "Everything will be better then."

I nodded in agreement. "Yes, without the oppressors keeping us down we'll get decent wages."

The moment had passed so we made our way back to the gap in the fence. On the way I spotted an old rose bush growing wild. On an impulse I plucked off one of the few remaining red blooms and presented it to her. I wondered if this derelict waste ground had once ago been a garden.

"For you," I said, "For my love. Wear it tomorrow."

She pinned it to her the breast of her shirtwaist and smiled. Even in the gloom I saw her face light up. Linking arms, I walked Rosa back to her lodgings. She lived in a room in one of those cheap, ugly newer buildings that backed onto the larger houses that looked to be over a hundred years old.

As we walked I saw an Anglo aesthete. He was out of place here but occasionally we saw the odd one or two, thinking that our slum was really made up of quaint old buildings. Despite the dark night, he carried a sketch pad under one arm and looked about him with an expression of wonder. Yet he didn't have to live in this fetid squalor. Some of the other men scowled at him and grumbled under their breath thinking he was a government spy.

Rosa sat on her stoop. I wasn't allowed to enter her lodgings -- not with that old tartar of her landlady -- but on a hot summer's night like this, that was no hardship. I took her chapped hand in mine and wished I could rub away the calluses and rough skin and make her as beautiful as the women I sometimes saw out shopping up on the hill. Yet I loved her so much it ached inside.

We made our plans for the morrow. Once again, she made me promise not to take any rash action and to stay clear of any violence. "Let Klein and the committee take those risks."

Reluctantly, I agreed. Satisfied, she stood to go in and I stood an instant later. We kissed again, our tongues exploring each others mouth. I didn't want to let the moment go but eventually Rosa broke apart.

"I love you," she said. It sounds better in our native Russian than in English.

"I love you, too," I replied. I knew then that I wanted to make this woman my wife.

I watched as she opened the front door and let herself in, silhouetted against the hall light. I never saw her alive again.

Turning away, I was too keyed up to rest and I didn't fancy returning to my sweat box of a room listening to my friends' snores. Instead, I walked past the wandering artist and uphill, away from our neighborhood and into wealthier parts of town. I was deep in thought about tomorrow -- and also my Rosa.

I walked further than I usually do and it was very late when I came back. Turning the corner into my street, I heard a creaking, a rumbling, a groaning and then a sudden loud crashing. I stopped, aghast, because, as one, all the crumbling, rotting, worm-eaten edifices had collapsed. These slums should have been condemned years before but how had they all fallen as one?

Running forwards, I screamed out Rosa's name. Yet it wasn't only Rosa who had been crushed in the catastrophe. Hundreds must have died that night as nobody living on the overcrowded street survived. Digging through rubble with my bare, bloody hands, desperately searching for her body yet hoping against hope that she had survived; I saw all that was left standing was one brick wall and two chimneys.

I screamed my rage and pain to the skies. It had to be the government. Somehow, they must have got wind of our plans and detonated explosive charges beneath the buildings. Nothing else would explain how the structures, old as they were, all fell at the same time. I swore I would take revenge on the men who had killed my love -- and my people. Somehow, I didn't know how, I'd find out who was responsible for this. And then I'd kill them. I would tear them apart with my bare, blooded hands if I had to.

Yet in my rage and fury I took no notice of those foolish poets and travelers who claimed afterwards they'd seen the ghosts of fair Georgian houses or smelled a delicate fragrance as of roses.

THE END.