A crucial moment drawing near, you pay the price
2002 01 23
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It's cold out here, and he's standing there telling the world about the colours of his hat, and how Peter Tosh stands for truth. I'm hurrying past, because I'm home-heading.
He's sitting there by the clock strumming out the love of Greensleeves, and I stop for a moment because it's too gorgeous to ignore. Every time I toss a coin. He shares his gift, and I share what I have.
He's got his sign-board up, to tell us the truth of the Son Of Man. Jesus to save the souls of the damned denizens of our streets. I rush past, but I notice the cruelty of those who don't rush past. I don't believe, but I don't believe in the undue meanness, the uncalled for cat-calls of the other unfaithful.
He stops me to ask why I shopped here today. Where do I come from, he wants to know. My boots are precious things of tough leather, and it's for them I came. From across the great city, from across the great ocean; I buy them in the home of their making, and take back a little more than souvenir.
He asks for spare change, always hanging around the burger shop. I imagine he does it to gain more sympathy than he'd get if he was elsewhere. The visual and mental trigger of food and money, starvation, need, and getting past a stranger's greed. I never shirk, I'll give him a dollar. He's nice. He likes my hat.
He's alone, and asks for nothing. He can be heard from one end of this dank tunnel to the other - creating such beauty in such an ugly space; warmth under the wet. I give, because he gives.