I loosely based
this short story off of two older men who lived in my hometown and
happened to pass away early last year. They were both homeless (one
for 40 years, the other for over a decade), and both said a major underlying reason for this was that they didn’t want to live within the confines of ‘conventional’ society. It should be noted, however, that the vast majority
of homeless people clearly do not want to live this way.
Part
1:
Michael stared
remorsefully at the glossy wood of the front door. Clutching his
laptop bag with one hand, he turned the creaking brass doorknob with
the other, to re-enter the outside world for yet another day of...
something. His body moved mechanically, predictably – closing the
door behind him, bent knee down three steps, and keys slung into
greige overcoat pocket. Gray pebbles glazed with slick street ice
dazzled under morning sunrise, and his click-clack trek to the train
station began. A pack of bubbly blonde school children loomed ahead,
rolling in their own world of laughter and pushy play, and Michael’s
brow furled as he tried to remember if, at some point long ago, he
was anything like them. The elusive illusion of freedom dissolved
from school days to college years to middle-management fears so that
laughter from his own mouth seemed foreign, or at the very least,
forced. Forays into romance were short-lived and sparks died as soon
as they started to fly. He was alone.
Crossing the main
road, cars crawled towards the intersection, all going somewhere with
seeming purposeless purpose, simultaneously interconnected and
disconnected, with zombified drivers gazing vacantly ahead.
Paycheques dictated the drive, and people threw themselves languidly
into a predetermined hierarchy of bosses and managers and to-do
lists. For what? Michael himself was languishing under this same
structure, in the mix of why-bother existence to pay his mortgage and
climb towards someone else's version of success on an uninspired, undesired imaginary ladder.
All ladders, if you were ‘lucky,’ merely led towards
retirement: a wrinkled face you could no longer recognize, perhaps
the odd buffet-ridden tropical vacation, and impending, unspoken... death.
As he approached the pockmarked portico of the train station, Michael noticed a dark figure curled up against a column, swaddled in sooty blankets. A pang struck, for things could always be worse: he had a roof over his head, and while days were doldrum-infested, he lived comfortably. Reality smacked him in the face, and he dug into his suit pocket for his wallet to pull out a tenner to put into the cracked collection cup next to the hobo’s nodded-off head. A mangled rumble of limbs made Michael pause, bill in hand, and a glint of dark eyes emerged from within the mess of blankets. The hobo was awake.
Michael was not
prepared to hand the homeless man the money while he was awake,
as he felt chest-gripping discomfort at any public display of charity
- some unspoken code of vague embarrassment - although he wasn’t
sure why. Society commands that those visibly in need are invisible,
and the middle and upper classes, when face-to-face with such
poverty, are never quite sure where to look, or they risk confronting
the possibility that they too, if raked by ill-fate, may one day find
themselves shivering under a frigid overpass. Mail-in donations and
faceless food drives were one thing, but on an individual level,
Michael squirmed. However, the bill was already out, and he
wordlessly knelt to place it into the dingy collection cup.
A gnarled hand
gently wrapped around Michael’s forearm.
“Thank you...”
The man spoke softly, and the wealthier man started in surprise.
Perhaps Michael was expecting a slurring wino’s gurgle, and he
winced at his own misdirected preconception. He looked away, ashamed, yet still aching to make a quick escape.
“You’re
welcome,” he stood back up, then added, with a tinge of guilt: “you
must be very cold.”
“Horribly...." he paused, "but I’m
just passing through here. I’m looking for my younger brother,”
The seated man tugged off his threadbare toque to uncover a
mottled mess of smoggy grey hair. Judging by the thick lines slashing across his cheeks, he looked a lifespan-ravaged 70 years old.
“Ah well. Good
luck with that...” Michael started, gripped by a spell of awkwardness and wanting to get away. The older man eyed his laptop
bag, and Michael pulled it more tightly towards his slightly pudgy
middle-aged torso, then felt a heightened stab of shame
“You going to work
or something?” the homeless man asked casually. “I’m Bud by the
way.”
“Hi Bud. I’m
Michael. Well yes, I’d best be off.”
Bud offered a
snaggle-toothed grin and pulled a half-smoked cigarette out of a
crumpled packet, “You like your job, eh?”
Michael gulped.
“Uh... no, no I
don’t at all actually.”
The hobo threw his
head back and roared with laughter, lighting his cigarette, as
burning paper and tar mingled in the air.
“I could tell. I
could tell,” he added, slapping his blanketed thigh.
“You could?” The
younger, clean-shaven man asked, a little stunned at being so
confronted.
“Oh yes, you look
a miserable thing. Say, why don’t I buy you a coffee with this
tenner. You can just go in late. I’ve got to get out of this cold
for a bit.”
Astonished, Michael nodded wordlessly, while Bud neatly rolled up his grime-caked blankets
and tucked them under his arm. A pair of fat-coated pigeons bustled past a nearby trash can, giving low throaty coos. Opalescent feathers shimmered amidst winter air as the birds' pinprick pupils darted to-and-fro in search of rogue coffee shop crumbs; they were simply trying to make their way in the world too.
Michael looked down at his work cell phone and silenced the the ringer, almost... almost reconsidering.
And off they walked.
Michael looked down at his work cell phone and silenced the the ringer, almost... almost reconsidering.
And off they walked.
