Most people tend to have a weekly catch-up in order to maintain structure, but of course the very nature of the arrangement means questions can be fired Billâs way at any time.â
Christy and I nodded in approval at Pete, intermittently stealing apprehensive looks at each other.
âRight, off we continue on the floor tourâ, Pete said. âNext stop, the bulletin board.â
Generally at around one oâclock, I went somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from the social media strategies, the thought showers, to take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and prepare for the afternoon hawking propaganda to some equally tired hack. But every once in a while, I felt the urge to brush up against the crowds of people to prove I was still alive. To feel their buzz, their hope, their expectation at the endless possibilities a day in the big city presented to them. Today was one of those days.
Central Station must have seen tens of thousands of pairs of heels each and every day. Heels going north to visit cousins, heels heading south to take in some fishing, heels kicking themselves at missing the 13.42 out of town. But from my infrequent visits to the terminal, Iâd come to know the grafters and grifters who worked the station floor. There was the phoney Hare Krishna in his orange shawl and too-new sandals who duped travellers out of small change for flowers, before picking discarded ones from the bin and reselling onto the next vulnerable small-town face. And the cup and ball con man who still managed to swindle passers-by with the oldest trick in the book through some animated stool pigeons and a mesmerising handlebar moustache. But today, another figure not only caught my still-sleepy eye, but damn near pulled it out of its socket.
From a distance, he looked like one of the doom-mongers you sometimes saw holding âThe End of the World is Nighâ placards. But as I moved closer and into focus I could see that he wasnât proclaiming the end of days. His sign read: âSister Gina. Fortunes told. Ten pound Bill. 182 Worcester Streetâ.
Great. More pyschobabble. Iâd had enough of that for one week.
Chapter 7
I stood about five paces away from the man, trying to process the scene. The sign he clung to was a half taller than him again. His clothes were unremarkable; he wore the typical kind of duffle coat you saw all the old folks of his age wearing on the estates which sprawled across the cityâs east side. His thick black-rimmed glasses framed two content and confident eyes which stared straight ahead to where the light fell from sparkling glass windows. Iâd seen him before. The yellowed nicotine-stained fingers of my internal filing system flicked through snapped scenes, muddled memories, and boozy bites of conversation to place this man. Where had I seen him before?
âDo I know you from somewhere?â
âWe all know each other, brother man.â
âOh great, not you as well.â
âAll of us, brother man. Weâre all in the same boat. Paddling furiously along lifeâs little stream, one stroke forward, two strokes back. And sometimes the water seems to be getting into the boat, doesnât it, brother man? And your little hands just canât scoop it out quick enough, can they?â
âYou could say that.â
âI did say that, brother man. Iâve been waiting for you to come and see me, you know.â
âWe have met, havenât we? But where?â
âYou could say weâve always known each other, brother man.â It was then that the words he held jumped off the page. âTen pound Billâ. The b of Bill was capitalised. Like in my name. Bill. Billy. Bill. This sign was made for me.
The serendipity of the scene must have dazed me because as I refocused, heâd vanished. I slapped myself in the face, hard, and hit my heels to 182 Worcester Street to find out just what the hell was going on. As I ran out of
Christy and I nodded in approval at Pete, intermittently stealing apprehensive looks at each other.
âRight, off we continue on the floor tourâ, Pete said. âNext stop, the bulletin board.â
Generally at around one oâclock, I went somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from the social media strategies, the thought showers, to take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and prepare for the afternoon hawking propaganda to some equally tired hack. But every once in a while, I felt the urge to brush up against the crowds of people to prove I was still alive. To feel their buzz, their hope, their expectation at the endless possibilities a day in the big city presented to them. Today was one of those days.
Central Station must have seen tens of thousands of pairs of heels each and every day. Heels going north to visit cousins, heels heading south to take in some fishing, heels kicking themselves at missing the 13.42 out of town. But from my infrequent visits to the terminal, Iâd come to know the grafters and grifters who worked the station floor. There was the phoney Hare Krishna in his orange shawl and too-new sandals who duped travellers out of small change for flowers, before picking discarded ones from the bin and reselling onto the next vulnerable small-town face. And the cup and ball con man who still managed to swindle passers-by with the oldest trick in the book through some animated stool pigeons and a mesmerising handlebar moustache. But today, another figure not only caught my still-sleepy eye, but damn near pulled it out of its socket.
From a distance, he looked like one of the doom-mongers you sometimes saw holding âThe End of the World is Nighâ placards. But as I moved closer and into focus I could see that he wasnât proclaiming the end of days. His sign read: âSister Gina. Fortunes told. Ten pound Bill. 182 Worcester Streetâ.
Great. More pyschobabble. Iâd had enough of that for one week.
Chapter 7
I stood about five paces away from the man, trying to process the scene. The sign he clung to was a half taller than him again. His clothes were unremarkable; he wore the typical kind of duffle coat you saw all the old folks of his age wearing on the estates which sprawled across the cityâs east side. His thick black-rimmed glasses framed two content and confident eyes which stared straight ahead to where the light fell from sparkling glass windows. Iâd seen him before. The yellowed nicotine-stained fingers of my internal filing system flicked through snapped scenes, muddled memories, and boozy bites of conversation to place this man. Where had I seen him before?
âDo I know you from somewhere?â
âWe all know each other, brother man.â
âOh great, not you as well.â
âAll of us, brother man. Weâre all in the same boat. Paddling furiously along lifeâs little stream, one stroke forward, two strokes back. And sometimes the water seems to be getting into the boat, doesnât it, brother man? And your little hands just canât scoop it out quick enough, can they?â
âYou could say that.â
âI did say that, brother man. Iâve been waiting for you to come and see me, you know.â
âWe have met, havenât we? But where?â
âYou could say weâve always known each other, brother man.â It was then that the words he held jumped off the page. âTen pound Billâ. The b of Bill was capitalised. Like in my name. Bill. Billy. Bill. This sign was made for me.
The serendipity of the scene must have dazed me because as I refocused, heâd vanished. I slapped myself in the face, hard, and hit my heels to 182 Worcester Street to find out just what the hell was going on. As I ran out of
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