man on my street
There’s a man in my street who gets drunk, sits on his front steps and calls out to people who pass by. he yells out politics, advice on raising children, fashion tips, opinions on stuff that is boorish, inaccurate, racist, sexist, misogynistic and loud.
No one every stops to debate with him or sit with him and agree. They hurry to the other side of the street, they check to see if he’s there and make a dash for it. he is a man who’s wife left him years ago. He gathers his information from others he meets at the pub. he reads the paper, listens to the radio and he lives on a pension. no one challenges him. they walk around him they plan their day, their trip their route around him. he makes no sense, he has no visitors or passion or influence or power or anything except a loud voice and an opinion. his drunk brain has no inhibitions, no shame no empathy.
he is an empty vessel, he is the product of an empty vessel, he is like a shell on a beach to which you put your ear to in order to hear the sea.
“Woman should be seen and not heard” he’ll incorrectly quote.
“the best fish and chips are at Wynnum”
” Jullia Gillard had a fat arse”
“up the sea eagles”
“You aught to be congratulated”
You think that one day you’ll hear that he died…that he stepped out in front of a car..that he fell down the steps.
What happens is that he does fall down the steps smashes his face, knocks out some teeth and comes out of hospital clean shaven and sober three days later. he does step in front of a car and doesn’t get hurt. his liver is so messed up that he can’t eat real food, his toenails fall off one by one. his elbow grows a lump and has to be put in a sling… but he doesn’t die. years and years pass. eventually you start to notice he stops calling out every day. a week passes then a month. then you notice a police car an ambulance and hear from the neighbors that he died “and no one knew about it”
and some reporter from TV come down and says whilst looking sadly into the camera ” isn’t it sad that someone can live alone and no one even knows he died”.
and suddenly you start to notice people are taking different routes to the shops, wearing brighter colours, pushing prams, riding bikes and skateboards, and singing in the street.
I’d say to the reporter, “he was dead a long time”
The Turkey's Nest 