An old homeless man hops on the train from Town Hall to Central. Bare feet that are hard to look at. Wispy grey hair like a wizard. Grey pants, army green jacket with nothing beneath, small black backpack like a misshapen pillow.
He starts chatting to another man. Reckons he should join the army. The man laughs. “I’m too old for that mate. Maybe some of these young fellas.” He gestures to a few middle-aged men standing in the carriage, who likewise laugh, this time at being described as ‘young fellas’.
The homeless man says something about the night that is indecipherable, mostly just to himself. Then he asks about his new friend’s travels, quizzes him if he is a heading home after work. His casual warmth and cogency is surprising, almost normal. As if the everyday and the destroyed are here in this space, barely apart. All us fellow travellers in a carriage riding somewhere. Making our way.
“Yes,” the new friend replies, “that’s me. Heading home as usual.” He pulls his Puma black carry bag closer to him by using ankles, then picks it up as we arrive at Central. Head shaven, athletic, a kindly demeanour. “Bye,” he says as he stands.
The barefoot homeless man likewise makes to move with own backpack as the carriage evacuates. Almost as if to join the other man who acknowledges him again as the doors open at the station for everyone.
But he sits back down and says by way of farewell, “I still have things to do here. My job’s not over. I work the network, you see.”
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