About a boy

It was dark, and I was clutching my teddybear. There you go, life works out that way sometime. I was thirtytwo years of age, and I was sitting on the doorstep of a friend. Who was not home. I had my coat clasped tightly around me, in between it and me, only my fluffy bear, who normally lived on the armrest of my fancy couch, sweet thing, it. I muttered softly to it, carried on whispered, elliptic conversations with him. Reassuring him when the click-clack of shoes on the pavement stones announced that someone would soon pass by us, in this dark and quiet sidestreet. Counting minutes. There cant be too many people passing by here, a lively downtown square is just there at the end, but noone comes down here except if they live further down the alleyway.

I dont know what I told bear when someone passed by again, whether I whispered that they'd soon pass, or that everything was allright, or perhaps I just chatted monosyllabically. Someone is coming again, look, they are together, two of them. I'm waiting. We're waiting for Emm to come home, yes, soon she will be home. Perhaps. Ten o'clock. Half past ten.

The thing is, getting there had been a challenge. It was Friday night, perhaps, or a Thursday, or a Saturday. Lots of people out, downtown where both of us lived - Emm and me I mean, bear doesnt count. But I shivered in the shadows, did not want to be seen, as if anyone who would cast his eye on me would betray me, like taking the ring out into the open attracted the piercing cry of evil birds above in Lord of the Rings. So I snuck by and pretended not to exist, drawing breaths when quickly crossing a square, everywhere happy, boisterous people about. Me muttering to bear. Don't worry, we'll be there soon, they don't see us, see? they don't see us. They are too caught up in themselves, we are just flitting by. Like tramps in the rain. It would have been easier if it had been raining. It must still, or already, be summer of some kind.

I dreaded having to go back, later now, people more drunk, more boisterous. Casting estranged glances on a child looking like a man, or a man looking like a child, with a bulge in his coat upon his chest, eyes darting as he nervously made way. Emm, we're going to Emm, yes to Emm, then things will be allright, yes bear, things will be all-right, and there will be tea and a couch and perhaps some dim light and we'll sit there, no of course we can sit on the floor too! Leaning against the couch, Emm will be ok, she understands. She doesnt understand, but it's OK. Homegirl understands, hey, do you remember homegirl? Our friend, our little friends...

The clock struck again. An elegant couple, thirty-something, home from a fancy dinner in that coolly lit restaurant with the exquisite amuses around the corner perhaps. She lives in a nice place, doesnt she, Emm does, uhhuh? Nice place. They look slightly disturbed at us, huddled on someone's doorsteps, then turn to each other and laugh about something, hug and say, let's do this again sometime. Lots of people like me in the street, homeless persons, addicts, crazies; people have been trained to blink, that's what I do too, when I walk to work, or back, though going back I'm more likely to hand some coins, a dollar or two, or smile apologetically down at where they look up at me passing by going home, from a Job with a Bag on my arm. But now it's me.

There's awkward moments, someone comes home just two doors down from Emm. But I sit and watch the pavement in determination, buttoning up my coat a little extra so no curious button nose peers out. Bearie. The clock strikes again. How long have I been here? Would she still come home? The refuge is behind my back, but it's locked and the lights are off. Home, my own home, is but a ten minute walk away, but an obstacle course of bright lights and doors flooding open revellers spilling out, whaaa heeey whooo. Home, I tell Bearie, psychologically preparing our defeat, bravely venturing to instill some sense of it actually being one, of it being OK to return. Shall we go home bearie? If she doesnt come home before eleven thirty, ok? If five more people have passed down this street...

It takes a long time before number three appears. I'm cold, my muscles stiffen up stubbornly: I'm sitting here, my head on my hands my hands on my knees my forehead down my body is my home. I'll be OK as long as noone moves. Just noone move. Untill Emm comes home. She'll stroke a caring brush of hair, will ask me what is up, and I will unfold myself achingly, uneasily, with a fearful darting glance left and right. And we'll have a cup of tea, and it'll be allright.

Except she didn't come home, and I had to dig. Untill I found a grumpy self somewhere inside that was adult enough to get me to stand up without whimperingly collapsing into some self-protective hug around my knees instantly again, to where I'd occupy as little space as possible, hoping that, if only I were as invisible as humanly possible, it'd be OK, they wouldn't mind, they wouldn't mind me, I wouldn't need to be afraid. I'm not really here, really, I'm not really me! Please don't be angry ... I only wanted to be nice... It's only to a friend that I would dare whisper, "please be nice to me... please don't be angry..."

The friend didn't come. Not her fault. The clock struck again and I couldn't believe that only half an hour had passed, only a quarter hour, how was that possible, when I'd been sitting here for hours, counting stars and stones and then the number of times I'd been here? Or the places I had lived or the number of times homegirl and I had gone clubbing.

Reluctantly I unfolded myself, perhaps the time late enough not to be seen by too many - I'm not in the same world as you, I'm in the other world; the world you'll want to ignore, I assure you. Noone to rely on but myself. I'll build myself an ersatz cave behind my own sofa again, perhaps, or who knows, perhaps I'm well enough to make do with a pillow by the central heating, and the yellow sun with its hands out holding me. A present from another life, how very yellow. It really helps. Sometimes.