The Bum

An indistinguishable pile of scraps and dirtied linen lies on the innermost side of the pavement. The occasional groan or movement. Passers-by walk around or simply over the pile, unsure of what it is or how it got there. One of them, a woman, wearing a tailor-made suit and patent heels is set back aghast by a sudden movement among the scraps. From the fortress of dirt a figure will arise, a shadow of a man, a mere silhouette, but only after the force of a pointed leather shoe punts him in the temple.

“Stupid fucking bum” the man mutters, as he stumbles before regaining his balance, recomposing himself and continuing on down the road. The bum rises gauchely and robotic, cradling his head in agony and grimacing. His arched back is visible through the numerous tears in his shirt. The scene is something of that from a horror movie, a monster awoken from the depths of some devilish, stinking lair. He stretches the near non-existent muscles of his every limb and cracks his neck violently enough to send a harsh shiver down the ridges of his brittle, misshapen spine. The man is heavily bearded and anywhere not covered in matted hair is covered in a thick layer of dirt. His complexion resembles that of rust and the clothes on his back appear centuries old. His home is comprised of a flattened cardboard box, damp and shrivelled from the raindrops which seep through the concrete of the overpass above. On top of the cardboard is an off-brown coloured sleeping bag and a bin liner closely packed with old rags which barely passes as a pillow.

It’s late, and the roads are virtually empty now. The occasional car horn can be heard in the distance but they remain unseen. There are no pedestrians in sight save the obnoxious piece of shit whose foot met the side of my skull just moments ago. Without packing my things, I follow him. He takes a long route to what I can only assume is his not-so-humble abode; a well-to-do apartment building on the affluent side of town. Fresh ferns and vibrant flowers line the polished steel gates that guard the complex like a lion guards its cubs and a healthy bustle comes from inside. Green with envy and contempt, I imagine myself caving in his skull with one of the many plant pots scattered across the complex. This calms my nerves briefly until it builds up again. I imagine myself taking longer this time, indulging in the pain it would cause not only to the man I’ve been tailing but also to those around him; his lovers, his family and friends who somehow find love for a man so wretched and vile, so spiteful and dispassionate, so repulsive and so churlish. How undeserving and unappreciative he is of the luxury that he lives in.

Its noon and I’m back at the overpass. I sit in my home, one arm extended and grasping at an empty polystyrene cup, the other shamelessly tucked under the covers of my sleeping bag touching my manhood out of sheer boredom, oblivious to my surroundings. A woman approaches awkwardly to drop a copper into my cup, but upon realising what I’m doing she jerks back in disgust and declares me a pig, a dirty bastard or something else that I already know. I find it mildly amusing and decide to take advantage of the situation. I tense a cheek, curl my lips to form a half-smile and snort violently. Her reaction, naturally, is one of disgust. But I’m used to that. I’ve been living this way for longer than I care to remember and whatever shred of dignity I once had disappeared along with my home and the people who claimed to love me. But they’re all just a blur; contorted faces that I now only vaguely remember.

I buy a scratch card from the shop with what little money I’ve made and scrounge for scraps in a nearby dumpster. I find no food. I lose on the scratch card.

Each morning I wake to the sound of my alarm clock; the shuffling of feet, the rev of an engine, the roar of a train and the screech of metal against metal as it comes to a halt in the nearby station. If by some miracle my slumber remains uninterrupted by the cacophony of civilisation, the unrelenting glare of the sun follows only minutes later and its harsh light attacks my eyes like a knife. I sit upright, clear my lungs and fill my parched mouth with saliva before swallowing. I take a deep inward breath and a moment to observe my surroundings. The street is an ocean of debris; plastics bags, discarded food and its respective packaging are littered across the surface of the waves, before being swept up by the heavy wind. The pavement is a dark grey. Not the grey of concrete but the grey of something decrepit and masked in thick soot. The walls are graffiti-clad and on the verge of crumbling where they stand. A nearby bin leaks about the tarmac beneath it and emits an odious stench which taints the morning air. Soon the smell of rot and soured milk is everywhere and I have to leave before my eyes begin to water.