Vagabond
Last week people queued to hear me talk. This week a man stepped over me halfway through a sentence.
The Cloven One read my sermon. He said I'd learned a great deal about the sound of my own voice. For the next assignment, he'd arranged for me to hear it without amplification.
No pulpit. No name badge. A worn coat, a doorway, and a body that got cold.
I asked where I was supposed to sleep. He said finding out was part of the work. I suggested he join me. He had meetings.
Monday
Sat on the pavement while people walked past without looking. At first I enjoyed it. Nobody asking for a refund. Nobody showing me a fucking video with "wait for it" as a condition of watching.
I called it freedom in my notebook. An hour later I needed the toilet.
The cafe required a purchase. The station required a ticket. One building had a perfectly good toilet behind a door that required me to be the sort of person they let through doors.
I had spent centuries coming and going wherever I liked. By noon I was negotiating for a piss.
At a hotel, I tried walking in as though I belonged there. Shoulders back. Confident stride. The trick has got me through palaces. The receptionist looked at my shoes and intercepted me before I'd reached the flowers.
I said I was waiting for someone. She asked who. Of all the people I've been waiting for, I couldn't think of one whose name would get me into the toilet.
Eventually a cleaner let me through a side door. Told me to be quick. I thanked him much too formally. He thought I was taking the piss, which, after all that, seemed unfair.
Tuesday
A man told me to get a job without breaking stride. I wanted to ask if he was offering one. He was already too far away to help, which seemed to be his preferred distance.
A woman bought me a sandwich and asked my name. Then she left. Didn't take a photograph. Didn't require a short speech about how she'd restored my faith in humanity. I ate it while trying to find something wrong with her.
Cheese was a bit dry.
Another woman stopped to explain how she would manage if she were in my position. Had it all worked out. Somewhere to wash. A cheap room. The friend she'd stay with until she found a job. She was particularly pleased about the friend.
I asked whether he had room for me.
"Well, I don't know you."
Neither did anyone else she'd suggested I ask. She checked her watch and wished me luck. I watched her leave with the expression I'd worn at the supermarket whenever someone brought me a problem I couldn't fix.
Wednesday
Security moved me from a doorway. The shop wasn't open, and I wasn't blocking anything, but the owner was due soon. Apparently I was allowed to be there until someone important might see me.
I argued. They dragged me out. Later, some lads decided I hadn't had enough attention and gave me a kicking. I spent the afternoon sitting against a wall, waiting for my ribs to let me breathe properly.
I used to enjoy frightening people who couldn't fight back. It saved time. Sitting there, I could see the attraction from their side. A cheap victory, and no referee to accidentally punch.
For the report I wrote, "They knew I couldn't do anything."
Then added, "That was why."
Thursday
Saw a boy being cornered by some older kids. I stayed where I was. My ribs hurt. There were several of them. Somebody else was closer. I found a whole fucking committee of reasons before the boy even looked my way.
He got free and ran. I told myself he'd handled it.
A man nearby said it was terrible, the way kids behaved now. He'd watched too. We had a short conversation about how bad other people were, and by the end I felt rather better about myself.
That wore off when I realised the boy had gone and we were still standing there congratulating each other on noticing.
I've heard that sort of explanation from the dead. It usually begins with a very detailed account of where everyone else was standing.
Friday
The boy came back. Kicked my cup over. I called him a little shit. He said, "You just watched."
I had a good answer ready about not being his fucking father. Didn't use it. He was already walking off, and I didn't like how badly I wanted the last word.
That night I collected a man from a room above a takeaway. He was ashamed of the mess. Kept apologising for the dishes while looking at his own body.
I told him we could leave. He asked whether somebody would find him. I waited with him until his neighbour knocked. It made the rest of my night harder. He didn't know that, which was probably for the best.
Saturday
Found a place in the morning sun. For once, nobody moved me. I sat there feeling absurdly pleased about a patch of warm pavement.
At the supermarket I'd needed the end of a shift. At the gym I'd needed to win. In church I'd needed an audience. Today my coat had dried and I didn't need to piss. Set the bar low enough and you can have a wonderful fucking morning.
It lasted until a man stopped to tell me happiness was a choice. Clean clothes. Coffee. A set of keys in his hand. He had brought several of his choices with him.
I asked if I could choose his coat. He became much less philosophical.
Later he came back past me wearing headphones. Looked straight ahead. I couldn't tell whether he was avoiding me or simply having his own day. Spent longer thinking about it than I wanted to admit.
When you sit still long enough, every passing face starts to look as if it's giving you an opinion. Most of them probably weren't thinking about me at all. That pissed me off too. I have some work to do on the distinction.
Sunday
The week ended. I knew I'd be leaving this body. The man in the next doorway didn't have that arrangement. He asked if I'd be back tomorrow.
I said I didn't know. The truth seemed a shitty thing to say, and a promise seemed worse.
The Cloven One asked whether I'd enjoyed my freedom. I told him to spend a night up here and ask me again. He said that sounded like a personal grievance rather than a report.
Of course. He'd wanted first-hand experience. Now it was too fucking personal.
Next week I get an office, a salary, and a key. I'm looking forward to the key.
G. Reaper.