And so you smile, you nod and you offer a cursory
"Howya."
....wait....where do you know him from?
"Oh shit."
That's right. You know him from the streets. Specifically that point of this street. He's always there. He's homeless. You're not friends, or acquaintances. He's the homeless guy you've just greeted while he's begging for some money. Sure is damn cold tonight. You fucking smiled at him!
And it is raining mighty hard tonight.
Not a lot of people know about the harsh life on the streets. I do. I mean, I know it's probably really fucking harsh and shitty....it's got to be. I'm sitting here, staring contemplatively from my couch out the window onto that dark, windy street below and I just know it's got to suck to be out there tonight. Sitting on the street, without shelter, with nowhere to go and nobody to love you
"Shit he's looking back up at me!"
And so I close the curtains and continue this blog post. Good fuck am I comfortable, warm and dry on this couch. My one complaint is that I might have eaten TOO much. Also, the remote is just out of my reach. Man, life can be tough on Home Street (seriously, I live at 47 Home Street). I'd love to say this was the first time I'd made a tit of myself on this stretch of Edinburgh, or even back in the dirty old town that is my home. It's not, you see. I really do know how dangerous and unforgiving it can be on the streets. How? I've been there, man....making it dangerous and unforgiving. Especially for the kids....
So, maybe I should explain that part.
First up, no, I have not been touching kids on the street and luring them back to my flat with the promise of playing Sega on my Super Nintendo games console as I feed them jellied sweets. Sega's dead. Nintendo ain't my style. The jellies are all mine. The kids here are ugly. Also, I'm not attracted to children. I loathe children. Speaking of which.....
ELLIPSES EVERYWHERE!
It starts with a flash of memory.
Actually, scratch that, it starts with slapping a child. It always starts with slapping a child.
There are five stages that come with waking up from a night's heavy drinking:
I) Relief- you've woken up, and that's an extremely positive result. Sadly, this is almost as good as it's going to get. You know it, and that leads you on to....
II) Regret- the memories are trickling back now.
III) Ecstasy: you've just realised you're not hungover. This is the true zenith.
IV) Immense regret- there they are, the last forgotten fragments. Why would anyone start talking about slut-dropping when alcohol is within earshot? You know how alcohol reacts when it hears of slut-dropping. Eye contact should never be maintained throughout a slut-drop.
V) Repression- there there, everything's going to be just fine.
Some months ago, when last I was sober, I recall such a day. These stages had been occurring at regular intervals throughout my afternoon. Stage I hit at noon. Stage II was no more than five minutes behind. Two and a half hours later followed an elegant face-plant upon finally mounting an extraction operation to get myself out of bed. That part doesn't routinely rank on the list, and hopefully won't be a regular feature of my morning (afternoon) ritual. It was at that point that peer pressure finally drove me from my room to the world outside.
Stage III caught me smugly strutting through Edinburgh, revelling in my day off. It brought bravado and the urge to do a spin as I walked. That urge was beyond resisting. It was wonderful. Stage IV was a sly bugger, sneaking up on me as I wandered through The Meadows.
Ugly babies, short panted harbingers of spring, twirling through the grass as I struggled through my pacing, my fear painting the anguished visage of a veteran of a forgotten war. This was not a war I could dream to win. I'd lost my arms in that mortar barrage. They were arms of the mind, emotional arms. The mortars were bombs, Haggis Bombs most likely. Maybe these emotional arms would explain why I had so little control over my actual, physically present at almost all times arms.
HE CAME OUT OF NOWHERE!
Shuffling down the street as may a barely vertical zombie (there was definitely Zombier at some point), but involuntarily swinging my arms in a fashion far more chipper than the situation demanded, danger loomed larger than a....really....large....thing (shut up!). Not for me though, you understand. Oh no.
SMACK!
Seriously though, if you're going to be a small Asian kid in public, you're going to have to respect your surroundings.
"Dammit, kid, consider your lack of spatial awareness BEFORE you get on the scooter! What are you staring at me for? So I smacked you clean off your scooter as you tried a daring, Senna-esque overtaking manoeuvre on my inside, but you've got to look at this from my point of view- it was a pretty impressive shot to completely miss your helmet and connect so sweetly with your little face. And you hit the ground HARD! Oh....shit....you're crying....er...."
*RUN AWAY!*
Obviously, that didn't happen. I would never do that. I would never look at the kid. I totally slapped the little fucker off his scooter though. I just didn't look back. Heard him hit the ground like a sack of shit and shot a furtive glance? Sure. Heard the tears? Most definitely. So did some other folks. I was right by my flat though. Clean getaway.
Why had I not written of this sooner? Stage V, babycakes.
This was not my first time.
On the last day I signed on to the dole in Dublin, I live-blogged the experience. Well, I regularly updated my Facebook status throughout the trip, at least.
And that is why I live in Edinburgh now. That is why I live on Home Street. That is why I watch homeless guys on the street with whom I've had awkward experiences. That is why....all of this.
You know how it goes- you're walking down the street where you live, and in the distance you spot him. All he wants is some change. You only just scraped by on paying your rent yesterday. You have almost no cash to your name. Just enough to eat for the next day, two at a stretch, until you next get paid in four days. The money you do have consists entirely of loose change. A pocket full. You're getting closer. Your pocket is rattling, jangling and calling out mercilessly.
Tractor beam.
You're locked in acknowledgement level eye-contact.
"Break away, man! No, commit. Walk calmly by with a straight up, sincere 'Sorry, man.' Never. Break. Eye-contact.".
You've missed the kerb. You thought there was one more step before you drop a level and your foot hits the road. You overshot your landing, ace. That was a cold cash cacophony channelled. You stare at him. He stares at you. You both know.
Fuck it.
You can eat for one day now. Just one day.
"Gee, I sure hope I never encounter this guy in an embarrassing manner again soon...."
That dog really had huge testicles.
