Streetless

Yesterday I found The Man Outside wandering along his street. He appeared from the shadows stooping into the soft glow of the sporadic street lamps before disappearing back into the darkness. Within seconds he was hidden by parked Ambassador taxi's or perhaps just by the invisibility which seems to shroud the Homeless. I turned back to the little hut of a street shop which shone out from the imaginary pavement. A couple of squared meters filled with colours and snacks, smokes and hanging shots of shampoos. I leaned up to the wooden counter and pointed for another packet of glucose biscuits. The chattering man leaned far over to reach the edge of his shop before swinging back up to exchange his food for my money. I left him streaming his words to his friend, as they sat squashed onto the same wooden stool, in the middle of his mountain of imperishable perishables.

Despite the mystical skill of disappearing under the cover of a blinking eye The Man Outside was back in sight. He stepped in slow strides with a surety which seemed to hold him tightly within the porous borders of his Own World. With each stride he gently kicked life into discarded plastic bags; providing them with a free flight with the Evening Breeze. He watched as the bags were - one by one - momentarily lifted from the dirt and filth. The plastic blew and bellowed into disfigured ballons around his ankles before rapidly deflating back into the gravity locked chaos of street rubbish.

I called his name. The Man Outside paused in his restlessness and tipped his head back from his hooded hugging blanket. His eyes remained camouflaged from the outside but revealed from within. He began to walk towards me. As he knelt down to touch my feet I tried to hand him the biscuits but he mumbled a stream of what appeared to be negatives before handing them back and then walking rapidly down the street towards His Corner. I obediently followed while still echoing my insistence that he take the snacks. Usually, I cringe when I see friends subconsciously dominate the small areas of freedom a Man free from social responsibilities still retains. I try to tune my ears out when I hear the tone of 'telling' rather than 'asking', especially regarding issues such as washing, dressing or even the cutting up of food. But lately I have noticed myself tottering around the same despicable paternal habit of presuming that I know what is best for someone living on the edges of society. Defeated and a little dejected I put the extra biscuits into my bag.

The Man Outside stops walking. I look at him. He mutters and mummers, mimes and mimics. His hands always working, his lips always moving, and yet dialogue is lost to probabilities. This evening it was a little easier to translate the message hidden within his garbled articulations. The reason for his discontent? Streetlessness.

A drunken man of an undisclosed nationality had curled up on top of The Man Outside's pavement bed. Why on earth he had decided to choose the one patch of road on the whole street which was (and has been for many years) occupied by the streets only regular homeless man seemed a cruel attempt by the rich and wealthy to possess everything of any value. After realising the reason for The Man Outsides agitated wanderings I tried to raise the cuckoo who had stolen his patch of road. I shouted at him to 'Wake Up' and give my friend back his bed, but liquor had clearly muted his senses. I even found myself trying to raise him with a few swift kicks to his legs and his despicably shiny leather clad feet. The intoxicated stranger remained in his different level of consciousness. I turned to The Man Outside and motioned my helplessness. He kicked at his own feet, and mumbled half words to himself, or perhaps to me. I expressed more anger at the stealing of a home than The Man Outside would ever be capable of. I mumbled a 'sorry'. A 'sorry' I can't help you sleep on the street. And then I awkwardly turned around, head lowered, eyes down, shame surrounding, as I walked off into the comparative luxury of the adjacent guest house.

I tapped on the front gate to rouse the night-watchman, and as the iron gates clunked shut behind, I left The Man Outside slowly pacing, gently kicking, quietly murmuring and patiently waiting for his corner of the street to be vacated.