Blip (a short story)

Posted on | April 28, 2010 | No Comments

(the first of a series of 1-page shorts on homelessness, destitution, stories that document the homeless experience for our homeless project. Some will be fictional, some factual)

He sits on the sloping stones. He sits at the end of the cycle lane that passes by the University library, on the way into town. It can’t be comfortable on the stone, but he’s got his sleeping bag tucked under him, and it’s a busy path. Hundreds of students pass by every day. Boys in loose pants and Jack Wills with dreams of mauling for England. Girls in Ugg boots and baggy grey t-shirts under fake Top Shop stoles. He’s always frowning. His skin is the colour of a weak cup of tea.

I’ve walked past him at least three times—since I started counting. The first time I didn’t give him any money. I walked past. It was probably early morning—I leave home about 6.30am and go to one of the cafes in town to write for an hour or two before going to work. So, I walked past. There was a robin sitting on the top of the bluntly trimmed oleander bushes that verge the Civic Centre. Robins blip like an electrical circuit. Blip. They flicker so quickly between singing with their chests up and tailing the air. Without any movement between the two positions. It happens too quickly. Blip. Blip. It’s not the improvisation of the blackbird. It’s lucky it’s got its red breast. Above us, the seahorses that turret the Civic Centre look over the city stiff in their marine blue-green crust.

He sits at the narrow neck of the path. There is some protection, some shade from exposure, from an overgrown fern as the path branches off behind the university buildings, down the back of the Civic Centre. I’ve noticed that later in the day he makes eye contact, asks for money. But at 6.30am he never looks up the path. Only down. Never towards those of us walking by to work.

The second time I saw him I walked across and dropped 50p into his cap, one of those round felt mosaic caps from the Middle East. He said thank you, mate, in a strong Scots accent. I didn’t manage to say anything. I never need the microphone when I’m giving a lecture, but here, nothing. Nothing came out, except the money. Not even a blip. The robin makes more of a noise.

The third time I dropped in a pound. He said the same. Thank you mate. I think something came out of me. Some noise. I can’t remember those one or two seconds. I’ve had that other times, of course. Playing football, shimmying, scoring an unexpected goal, and seconds later I can’t remember the detail, the spatial movement, how my feet went one way, the other, passed one defender, another, Geoff shouting, pass it!, and everyone stopping, Geoff running over, Twinkletoes!, bashing chests (it was an American Football thing at the time—bashing chests, a macho congratulation, that we adopted). If it had been a game of football, that lack of recall, I’d call it a champagne moment. He may have supported Dundee United. Before I could ask, I was past him. A champagne moment.

Yesterday I walked down that path into town and he wasn’t there. I began writing a story in my head—the first pass, the second and then a fictional conceit: that I sit down next to him on the sloping stones and that—here’s the twist—I would ask him for money, and by the end of this page he would give me what was in his cap and walk off and never return to that spot again.

But then this morning he is there, and my story is… Gone. Just a blip. As is his wont in the morning, he doesn’t look up the path, only away. I don’t give him any money this morning. On the railings that run along the road a male blackbird pins me with its burning orange ring of an eye. Has anyone else noticed?—it’s the blackbirds next. First came the pigeons, then the seagulls, then the ravens and crows. Fearless. Habituated to our rubbish, our movement, our passing.

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