On a crowded tube. Late. Saturday night.
There’s a homeless man with a fiddle. He must’ve just played as hes going through the carriage collecting money.
He makes his way back to the open and dilapidated fiddle case – the fiddle is well worn with curled strings at the ends, scratches and marks – he puts the newly collected money in his pocket and zips up the case. Work is over for now.
As he takes a seat he pulls out a plastic bag containing a box of fried chicken and eagerly picks off the greasy flesh, enjoying every bite.
The tube has cleared a bit and two chaps with cans walk through the carriage. One guy sniffs and looks in disgust at the homeless man – it’s apparent he hasn’t showered in a while and the greasy chicken isn’t doing him any favours. The chap looks back at his mate indicating the rank smell of the homeless man.
“He’s enjoying his delicious chicken,” the companion responds with a grin as he takes a sip of his beer.
Two girls come on to the tube and one of them stops flat in her tracks next to the homeless man.
“She ran into the wall,” snorts the disgusted chap.
“More like a health wall,” replies the girl. She and her friend continue to snicker at the homeless man’s expense – making faces indicating, “this man is crazy/smelly/gross.”
The homeless man is completely oblivious to any of this. He finishes his fried chicken, leans back and closes his eyes. Although he’s resting, it’s far from peaceful – his brow is furrowed and there’s a tension in his face that’s spreads throughout his body.
The girls continue to snicker.
I want to say, “Maybe it’s easier to be crazy than deal with the harsh realities of life.”
The homeless man’s eyes are open now. He’s rubbing his greasy fingers through his already greasy hair. Standing, he buttons up his long grey coat. He must be playing a tune in his head because he’s shuffling his feat and mumbling a beat. He picks up his fiddle case – the seams are torn with stuffing coming out.
I wonder where he learned to play. What was he like before this alternate reality of his took over. I briefly imagine him feverishly playing the fiddle for friends and family.
But before I know it, he’s off into the sea of people and gone.
The bag full of chicken scraps is still under the seat. It must’ve been a good meal.
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