Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
He sat, with the hat between his legs and the dog at his feet.
It was his third morning in the same spot, his few belongings surrounding him in a small circle.
His possessions consisted of a sleeping bag, rucksack, newspaper, water bowl for the dog, a packet of durries and a longneck of VB dressed ever so elegantly in a paper bag.
The air was damp; his clothes slightly wet, leaving him to shiver slightly. He’d not had a shower for some time so the dampness stuck and the dampness stank.
The smell of alcohol emanated from his skin to such an extent that you could smell it as you crept closer. He could see people cross the street to avoid him; to avoid feeling their self imposed middle class guilt that came from knowing that life looked like this for some people (even if none of them cared enough to do anything about it).
He had no time for their guilt. This was his life; waiting on one corner for a few days, to be shifted by the police when the shop owners grew tired of looking at him; the vagrant who had taken up residence on their footpath.
He was an object to be seen- to evoke emotion, but not so much that it might prevent their lives from continuing forward.
His days were spent sitting, smoking, drinking and watching. He was never part of it. As the day wore on so too would the liquor. One longneck became one litre of wine… became the toxic taste of methylated spirits mixed with pineapple juice.
The stench- the stale stench of smoke and the foul smell of grog would increase; his alcoholic belligerence and volatile language spitting from his mouth. He threw expletives of the worst kind at unsuspecting and innocent passers by: ‘Don’t call me a fuckin’ rock spider!’ he’d yell at everybody who never said it. ‘You’re all fuckin wombats’ he’d yell at the world as a collective, pissed off and pissed.
Slowly the grog would sink so far into his system that he’d get sleepy. Nodding off with a lit cigarette still in his hand, the ash burning holes through his clothing. Suddenly a sense of calm would cloak their street corner as the man transformed into a tangible illustration of societies failure to protect.
Sleep comes and rests his mind, taking him away from the darkness. But still, he will wake up and not have anywhere to go.
Tomorrow he’ll sit with his hat between his legs, the dog still at his feet.