He’s stood there sometimes ( Archived) (7)

He’s stood there in the main downtown shopping centre, at the corner by the south-west entrance to one of the galleria, pressed against the grey tiling surrounding the bottom part of the building.
- A six button coat, torn shoes, worn out clothes, somewhat dirty.
- Ruddy, reddish, overgrown, thin hair pointing in all directions, as if it desperately wanted to rip out and escape his scalp.
He’s always stood next to two hard-case, stand-up suitcases. And it is evident that these two cases, this is how he lives, that is the home he owns, that is all of the belongings he has. No $2,000.000 house out on one of the islands, no one-room rental in one of the suburbs, not even a bed at a friends garage.

Just the two suitcases and I wonder if they are even half-full, either one.

He’s standing there selling a paper about homeless people. One I know they publish, then have homeless sell where a good part of the money the person selling brings in, he keeps, at least one opportunity for a come-back in life.
He doesn’t engage with anyone, he doesn’t ask a single person, doesn’t bother a soul, he just stands there, still, quiet, holding up a copy on display with one of his frail, dirty, busted up hands tortured by god knows what storms in life.

Yet I find it a strong hand, one that, after all which has happened, musters the strength to hold that copy up steady.

I’m not really sure why I notice him. He’s standing there with a posture, somewhat hunched and reserved, which makes him almost become one with the façade behind him, and disappear into it. At one of the most active parts of the city, right in front of clusters of people waiting for their trams, in this continuous flow of people, there should be a chance that someone notices the man. But it’s all passing by in a mighty pace, like a human clockwork ticking for all eternity.

Into a store, out from a store, through the galleria passage, onto the tram, off the tram, up towards the next block, down towards the central station, round, round, round. In the roar of the city, built up by thousands of bodies in motion, the clinking sound of a bottle left by someone in the middle of the square, which no one’s cared to pick up and now not deliberately is being kicked back and forth between stressed people’s feet, in the rattle from the trams making their runs between the downtown buildings. Coming down from the main street of the city, making a sharp right, entering the small square, stopping by the entrance where the man is stood. The puff from the tram-doors opening and closing, in all this presence and motion, the man is almost invisible, when he should be what one notices the most, more than anyone.

But we don’t anymore, we don’t notice people who look like him, we don’t stop for people like him.

We’re in a hurry. Big Brother is on the telly soon, after which it’s time to vote for Idol-Ben and help get him to the final, and my Sudoku-book, there’s half of them yet to be solved, and I have to buy myself one of those jackets that everybody else is wearing. Have to. Now!

We only stop if an ambulance parks in the midst of the tram-tracks, if a drunk is thrown into a police van over at where the fountain’s at, or if in the middle of the square a raging mad pit-bull, brain-damaged by months of torture, gets a firm grip with it’s fangs around a poodles neck and refuses to let go, regardless of the poor victims desperate howling.
We stop and take a moment then.

Cont………..

Like I said ;)

I read this and meant to comment and then I couldn't find it so I am glad you brought it back up...this is an amazing piece of writing...and yes sooooo true that we just walk on by the homeless without a care in the world except our own lives and yet these beautiful human beings all have a sad story to tell....but it's more convenient for us to believe in the stereo-types...that they are there through some fault of their own...or the other one...because they want to be.....

wow

hmmm

Could not have said it better if I tried.