by Kitty Jarman
With tiny fists we tapped, tapped, tapped on his door, whispering, “Gustof.” The door would crack open a little as he peeked out like a caged criminal.
“What?” he would ask in a low gruff voice, glancing around behind us.
“We’re hungry.” One of us answered. He always let us in.
We were there begging for money. It’s what we did; along with returning empty beer bottles for their deposits. We were a ragamuffin gang of kids from six to nine years old, living in poverty; running unsupervised on the streets. The streets of a little beach town in Hawaii. It was 1962.