Over the past few weeks, the other 5 McCademists have been asking about the short story I uploaded for the “something interesting” section of my application. Well here it is…
Note: I am dyslexic (YAY!) and I was slightly intoxicated on whiskey when I wrote this.
In the beginning he assumed a geriatric, weary stance at the train station; to him the dawn explodes as another entity, for the unobservant train commuters they just need to be on that straight line train, so they can grab a seat…nothing more nothing less. But his absent quintessence-lust for life bangs on in his head; he’s struggling with survival and this decade not the need for a seat. From the looks of things he wishes for his troubles to fall out of his tattered pockets, from his dirty jacket. As trains flare into the dusty derelict station his body sways in slow nervous edgy movements, ever so closer to the automatic doors. Yet his nerves straighten him up when the gravel faced train conductor checks along the outside of the train for sweaty late businessmen, trying to reach the train before it sets off. It all looks like a Pensionnaire theatrical event.
Suddenly being snapped out of his nervousness a little blonde boy asks’
“Why are you so nervous?”
The man ponders for a moment trying to gain some words of wisdom for this gazing child.
“I have no money but I need to get on a train to Manchester, the banking systems fault probably” he quips.
But before the young lad can even spurt out a syllable, the vixen eyed mother squinting at this apparent less human being, scoops up her child and moves a very honest fifteen feet away, uttering words along the lines of “staying away” and “idiot”.
To some people who do catch the eye of this man may assume that, noisome floods of opium poppy, are lashing through his veins, slipping into the eye of his psyche. ‘Cough cough’ DRUG ADDICT they say to each other…
Yet he knows himself that people’s ‘reading a book by its cover perception’ are painfully wrong. Since his childhood days the only flowers that have been through his body have been, the smell of Philadelphian flowers up his nose, giving him the gift of love for all things natural. That’s how he works.
He’s thinking forward thoughts of the distance between human reality and real human reality, being homeless isn’t a bad thing, so what if I’m homeless, so what if a developed culture avoids me, it’s my choice to be homeless, I have the freedom of freedom and real worries of what the next day will bring, I don’t care that I’m surround by horde of people who have made a proximity around me, I don’t care that I’m crying.
Yet another train rolls past and slows down with a steamy voice, maybe this is his chance to jump into the realm of a free train ride, but he is shocked at how soon and how rapidly the people’s proximity is broken, they rush for a seat, a single seat where they can nestle in and create their own space in a book or a place of musical alleviation. When the proximity is broken true faces break free of the stand alone time, in which they were held in by impatience because of a late train, these true faces range from anger to disgust and for the most part at the homeless they contain contempt. What an easy life a homeless man leads. The pressure leads him to thoughts of mass protests against who he is, and lingering thoughts about the numerous and to some people the humorous beatings he had received in the past, the array of people is peculiar because they seem to have amassed from nowhere so diligently he surrenders into the background against a cobbled weed ridden wall. He mutters to himself ‘everything I do seems to be off the record and at any rate this train seems to be overcrowded, I can sneak on but won’t be able to hide’.
Suddenly again being snapped out of his distressing thoughts, a rather smart-looking gentle fellow with a forgiving smile, tugs against his jacket. The man’s smile felt hypnotizing in an understanding way, then within the blink of an eye a familiar face popped up just below this man’s waist line, the same blonde haired pleasant boy from before, without making a statement the young boy handed him a train ticket, gave him a hug and stepped back to his father’s side. Floating away into the clouds of happiness he is eager to thank the father and son combo but realising they have descended into the chaotic train rush he begins to search for these gift dwellers, but has no luck. Then with a heartfelt shout that comes from a distance, he focuses his eyes on the father while he’s walking backwards towards his distance wife… the gracious father shouts,
“I danced in the city with my prized possessions along with a bottle of whiskey and lost it all, all I had left developed into cardboard, cold nights, fights and raspberry Berets in the back streets of Camden, I taught my son that social classes mean nothing, it’s all about the unity of people, and with a little help the classes won’t be divided for long” and with a glance back after turning he shouts again “good luck squire”.
After the family fades into the clothing of the crowd he wanders off and he feels so elated with his new-found picture of culture and the clash between the rich and the poor, that he does a homeless version of a ballet pirouette. Content that he’ll be on his way to a bigger city, with more help for the down and out he stops and stands poignantly waiting on the arrival of a Manchester train, not a care in the world.
Looking at the roof of the train station, he contemplates why nobody ever just lays down and sees the different perspective that begins when you are lying horizontal, then when his hearing fades back in he is left wondering why he is laying horizontal on the platform, and why a red-faced steroid giant is screaming vulgarity right into his face.
“You f*ing dirty tax dodging bastard tramp”
“Always in the way, begging for some f*ing pennies”
“Get a job, NO! NO! Just die you vermin scum”
“You stood in my way and I missed my f*ing train you s**t brick”
He realises that this blue-veined man has cascaded him to the floor like a door mat, and slowly steps up to the man and says,
“You need some culture training” and walks off in a slow manner knowing that in the end, everything reverts to normal.