STORY: ‘Moving On’

‘The question,’ someone said, ‘is not whether we believe in them but whether they believe in us.’

The young bloke with the shaved head and the over-sized singlet looked up from the footpath where he was crouched.

‘Come again?’

‘Love to,’ said the old bloke standing behind him, his big hairy hands resting on the handle of an old orange suitcase. ‘But I can’t.’

The young bloke stared at him. ‘Piss off, pal,’ he said.

‘All in good time,’ said the old bloke, serenely.

Turning back to his search, the young bloke scrabbled around at the foot of some bins. He snatched at something and got up with a grunt. A broom and a long-handled pan stood against a wall nearby.

‘I know you?’ the young bloke asked.

‘Probably,’ replied his companion. ‘Most people saunter through my summer house at some time or other.’

‘Your summer house? What the f –’

The old bloke giggled.

‘Just a little joke,’ he said. ‘What I mean is that I live in the great outdoors.’

The young bloke let out a snigger. ‘Oh yeah. You’re the mad guy from the mall. The homeless one.’

‘Flattery, my friend, will get you nowhere.’

The young bloke looked at him closely. ‘How do you do it, mate, in front of all those people?’

‘Practice. After the first twenty years it’s a breeze.’

‘But what about money? How do you eat?’

‘Oh, I’ve had various money-making ventures. Busking, portraiture, interpretative dance and the like.’

He leaned forward. ‘There’s a food van,’ he whispered and tapped the side of his nose.

The young bloke grinned.

‘You’re fuckin’ nuts. Where’ve you been anyway? I haven’t seen you around for a while.’

‘I’ve moved on,’ said the old bloke. ‘But enough about me. What brings you to this salubrious side-street?’

‘Community fuckin’ service.’

The young bloke pointed towards the tools of his trade. ‘I’m sweepin’ up butts.’

He held up the one in his hand. ‘Gotta a light?’

‘No,’ said the old bloke, with a wink. ‘But I am the Light.’

‘Piss off.’

Shoving the butt behind one ear, the young bloke cocked an eye at the sky. ‘I better be moving on myself,’ he said, taking up the pan and broom. ‘It’s a filthy fuckin’ world.’

He ambled away before turning straight back. ‘You didn’t say,’ he said, ‘how you got out.’

‘You’re right,’ said the old bloke. ‘I didn’t.’

He stared off into space.

‘You get used to other people looking right though you. That’s okay. But you never expect to look in a window and not see yourself looking back.’

He shook his head, chuckled, and tipped his suitcase up on its wheels.

Then, with a wave, he was gone.