The politicians eat in fancy dining halls, whilst the rich wear crowns of gold, and yet still people go hungry, still, people go cold and still, people live and die on the streets, streets that threaten to swallow the less fortunate.
He sighs another sigh, lights up another cancer stick (homemade) and beds down for the night. Traffic rushes by as one clubber goes to one club, another to another and so and so forth. The bright lights of clubland it seems, do not disturb him anymore. He has been here too long for such nuisances to bother him.
“Beats the telebox,” he says to himself as he takes a drag.
Meanwhile...
“Now fuck off,” says the tall fella to the short fella. “You know more about table football than the real thing.”
The short fella offers a laugh.
“Subutteo!” is his retort, as the daft pair, soft lads if you will, move along the pavement.
“Look, we could make a killing if we twist a few heads. Nobody will ever know,” the tall fella says. “And by the way Frank, your shoes are leaking again.”
Frank looks down and indeed, his cheap 'going out shoes' do have a hole in them.
“Jeez, I’m never getting off tonight with these boats.”
“Now that is the most sexist thing ever have I heard,” says the tall one. Damien is his name.
“Glue. You need glue. Come on over here,” says a voice.
Tall and short look at the bag of rags in the floor with the smoke drifting from it.
“Did those rags just speak?” Asks Damien.
“Fucked it I know,” says Frank.
“Jesus,” is heard from the bag of rags as a body emerges from it. “First night out in a while lads, yeah?” asks the body, whose real name is, well we never really know until later.
“You alright in there, fella? Jeez ya scared us half to death,” says Damien.
“Him more than me,” offers Frank. “But still.”
The man from the rags lets out a laugh.
"Here," he says reaching into his rags and producing a tube. "Glue. For your shoe. Affix one part to the other and go dancing. Enjoy, but with the greatest politeness, fuck off and leave me to sleep in peace."
The rags fold in on themselves and the smoke chimneys again. Frank and Damien nod their heads in respect, then do as they are told. They fuck off.
*
The buses pass, the overhead train hums and the taxis beep and manoeuvre from lane to lane. All nighttime white noise to the man in the rags until-
"What the fuck do we have here?" snorts an educated, overindulged, drunken, foolish, twenty-something. He pokes his toes into the rags again.
“Whatever it is, it stinks,” offers one of his Uni chums. “Give it another kick.”
Chum One obliges as Chum Two, Three and Four delight. Actually, so do their girls.
“Do that again and I’ll cut you,” are the shocking words from the rag.
“Did that just speak?” says one of the Chums and at this hour of the morning, who fucking knows which Chum it was?
“Do you know, I think it did.”
Another Chum, another education wasted, but not for long. He is about to get wise. The rag is up before anyone can say “Masters Degree,” and a Chum is against the wall, blade at throat, heart in mouth, shit in pants.
“Do that again,” the rag says.
“Do what?” The Chum asks.
“Embarrass your mother.”
“I don’t know what you…”
“Yeah, and Jesus wore sandals. Now fuck off.”
As the previous (but ever so more politely chaps) did, Chum One, Two, Three and Four fucked off. Along with their girls.
The man of rags tries again to bed down. It isn't easy. The cold hurts, the streets bony against his bones, but the quiet is finally here and he and his mutt can catch a fitful sleep. It's nice for a while, the sound of silence, the sound of the river waking with the ships coming in. It’s nice, the peace, the relief from the madness, pressure and sadness. It’s nice.
“Arthur, you still with us?” It’s a harsh but well-meaning voice that shakes him from his rest. “Here, tea and toast,” the lady says.
“Yeah, I'm still with you,” Arthur says, “The road hasn’t swallowed me just yet,” he says, sharing his toast with his dog.
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