The Transit Man

The Transit Man

“Poverty is often concealed in splendour, and often in extravagance. It is the task of many people to conceal their neediness from others. Consequently, they support themselves by temporary means, and every day is lost in contriving for tomorrow.” – Samuel Johnson

For anyone that lived through the Swinging Sixties, like myself, will remember it by the afros, the Beatles, Mary Quant’s miniskirt, the mods and rockers and the nuclear disarmament movement. There were many other things which flourished during this decade but nothing quite like the music. Having said that, I’m hardly surprised that record players came into popularity around this time. I awoke one day and everyone seemed to own a turntable. As far as entertainment goes, this was certainly one of the greatest inventions to grace the market. With records at the peak of musical sound, I can understand why companies wanted to take it a step further by introducing portable record players. That way, Beatlemaniacs and Stones’ fans could listen to their favourite songs wherever they pleased. I saw not only an unexplored hole in the market, but one which could make millions if invested in properly.

I suppose what I did next was as instinctive as backhanding a fly buzzing around my head. Okay, maybe not. I withdrew the entirety of my savings, which amounted to more or less £100 (old money) and invested it in Phonico, a technology company set upon becoming the forerunner for the production of portable record players. My investment was speculative, I admit, but no riskier than buying shares in Ford Motor or Texaco. After all, portable record players were almost guaranteed to be the mainstay of musical entertainment. So where am I now? Sunbathing on a secluded beach in Bermuda? Lounging in my luxury home in Beverly Hills? Dining at the Ritz with some fellow entrepreneurs? I wish. My reality is so far away from that you might not think such a plummet is possible. But, take my word for it, because I am living proof that not all gambles work out as planned.

            This will be my ninth year on the streets. I am shocked that I have survived this long without a fixed roof over my head and no hunch of where my next meal will come from. I have long since passed the stage of beating myself up about my mistake. How was I, Marlon Jennings, a twenty-four-year-old pot washer from Britland Heights, to know that my shareholdings would be rendered worthless. It was not even like I misinterpreted the market. Portable record players did indeed live up to their expectations, though Phonico discovered a technical fault in their product. All thanks to a fucking defective stylus, I find myself sitting outside Britland Square Station with nothing more than the clothes on my back, when I could have been like all those happy people who walk past me every day. Phonico had only to recall their products and I might have escaped this fate, but apparently it was decidedly easier to close its doors for good. You could say I deserved it. It was not like someone forced my hand in making that investment. But to you I ask this: why should a man be made to pay for one mistake, when there are people in this world who make thousands of mistakes and never come to pay for them?

There are millions of vagrants like me living on the streets of every city. Some places you can’t walk further than twenty steps without encountering one. Nowadays, we have never had it so rough. We are frowned upon, ridiculed, banned from certain premises and even discredited from existence. This last gesture is what hurts the most. Imagine being no more salient than the chewing gum beneath one’s shoes. How are you to acknowledge homelessness when you can’t even bring yourself to look at us. You cross the road just to avoid being asked for some change. It’s only when you get speaking with us that you realise that we too are human; not much different from yourself in many ways.

            Luckily enough, I haven’t experienced this blatant classism. That is likely down to the fact I don’t dress like your stereotypical vagrant. I own two outfits. Both are Donegal tweed suits which I have alternated between for years now. As for my other clothes, those were sacrificed in exchange for money or food. I carry around a briefcase, inside which is my blanket, my other outfit, a book and some rations of food. I do not descend to begging, albeit necessary for some; nor do I squat down in the dark recesses of Britland Heights like a sewer rat takes settlement in the dirty pipes belowground. I sit on public benches and sleep on the overnight trains when I can. These operate throughout the night and are quickly becoming the favoured hideout among the homeless community. In fact, I spend most of my life on trains. This is where I brush shoulders with the more privileged folks of society. Privileged by my standards, anyway.

This one evening, I found myself talking with a man called Thomas Hewitt. He was, as I recall, a talkative, excitable character, whose eyes glared with a natural lustre for wealth. One glance at his Burberry overcoat was all it took to realise Mr. Hewitt’s life was a completed checklist. He had probably climbed the corporate ladder to its peak and there he was speaking to me.

            “Where was it you work again?” he asked. “No, wait, let me guess. You strike me as a Charles Armitage boy, yes?”

            “Right on the money,” I lied, without any clue of what he was referring to.

            “I knew it,” he said. “You have that war-torn stockbroker look after a stressful day in the office. I’ve been there myself. The market is volatile right now!”

            “Tell me about it,” I said, assuming my role.

            “I work just across the street at Hickman & Oatridge,” he said. “Maybe we should grab lunch some day this week? What’s your number?”

            I searched about my pockets and cursed. “Dammit, I must have left my phone back at the office. Do you have a pen I could borrow?”

            Mr. Hewitt availed a golden fountain pen from his pocket, with the company initials engraved on the lid. I had never held something quite so valuable. I took it and began writing down his number on my hand. By good fortune, he failed to notice the wealth of dirt trapped under my nails or else he might have started to ask questions. Of course, stockbrokers were allowed to have dirty hands, but mine were like those of a coal miner. There was no way of accounting for such uncleanliness.

            “Give me a call any time before ten,” he said. “Any later and my wife might get the wrong idea.”

            “Sure,” I said, offering back his pen.

            “Keep it,” he said. “I have hundreds of those in my office.”

            I tucked the pen into my jacket pocket and peered up at my new friend. To my alarm, the conciliatory look had disappeared from his face and his eyes took on something close to malice. I was worried he had seen through my disguise, but he seemed more concerned of the people seated around him, staring from one end of the carriage to the other like a watchful yard dog. Then he turned to me and said: “Can you smell that? It’s like something has died right under my seat. Please tell me you can smell it too?”

            I remember sniffing at the air as though oblivious to the musty odour escaping from my clothes. “Yeah, that smells foul.”

            “You know, Marlon, I hate getting the train home sometimes. Men like us don’t deserve this filthy mode of transport. Look at it. It’s like sitting inside a moving tin of germs. When was the last time they cleaned down these surfaces? My guess would be never. There could be all sorts of bacteria living on our seats and yet here we sit. An agreeable gentleman like yourself is the only thing which makes this journey bearable.”

            “Same goes for yourself,” I replied courteously. “Associate with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation; for it is better to be alone than in bad company.”

            “I can tell you are well read?”

            “I like to read occasionally. Whatever I can get my hands on really. Books are hard to come by nowadays.”

            His face seemed to furrow at this remark so I corrected my original statement. “Good books, I mean.”

            He smiled at me. “I’m starting to like you, Marlon, a man after my own heart. It will be a real shame when you leave me. I say, where are you stopping at, my friend?”

            I had not anticipated the question and found myself blurting out a station name at random. “Chesterford West.”

            He gave me a confused look. “Haven’t we already passed there?”

            “…I meant Chesterford East. Sorry, it’s been a rather long day.”

            “That’s where I am getting off, too,” he said cheerfully. “Allow me to walk with you?”

I wanted to protest but I didn’t have much choice in the matter without sounding rude. In the end, I accepted gladly. The train stopped five minutes later and out we both stepped at Chesterford East station. We navigated through the crowd of commuters waiting at the platform, each holding their briefcases languidly after a long day, and emerged on Bolton Street. This part of the city was more industrious than the rest of Britland Heights. Clouds of smoke blew up from the subway, so dank it needed but little effort of imagination to think about the harm it would impose on your lungs.

            We continued walking northwards together, chatting about business, women, politics and food – all the things I lacked in my life. The only reason I knew anything was from reading the newspapers left behind on the trains. Anytime the conversation neared a shady topic, I pushed it onto something else subtly enough that he didn’t think I was hiding information. Why was I doing this to myself? Why bother making friends with the rich? Because the rich are often generous to those they trust. It’s gaining their trust which is the challenging part. I had to essentially convince Mr. Hewitt, a top investment broker, that I was his equal. I knew there was no possibility of getting a handout from one conversation alone, but given enough time, I might reap some reward. It was a simple matter of patience, and that was something of which us vagrants are deficient. You can’t exactly blame us. Without any certainty of food or shelter, homelessness was like living with a foot pressed to your throat, slowly choking you of determination until there’s nothing left but sufferance. Begging on the streets would only get me so far, but it would not change my circumstances. My salvation from poverty lay in the wallets of the wealthy.

I found myself so focused on maintaining conversation that I lost track of our whereabouts. When I eventually took in my surroundings, a bolt of terror ran through me. It was not that we were lost, but quite the opposite. We were walking along Prospect Street, which I always thought was a cruel name for a place which housed the city’s largest homeless shelter. It stood only a short distance ahead of us. I wanted to cross the road so I wouldn’t get recognised, but it was too late for that. We had just passed its entrance when a voice called after me.

            “Marlon! Hey, Marlon, over here!”

            I turned to find Miss Katie Morris, a regular volunteer for the shelter, standing by the door. “Oh, hey Kate. Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

            “I was just going to remind you that there is a room free tonight if you haven’t got a place to sleep?”

            I laughed it off as a poor joke. “I would prefer to stay at my own place tonight, but thank you for the offer.”

            Before Miss Morris could say any more, and thus jeopardize my incognito, I made off quickly down Prospect Street. My new friend caught up with me and asked: “Who was that back there?”

            “Oh, her? She is just a close family friend. She has been working there for years now.”

            Mr. Hewitt grimaced to himself. “Urgh, I couldn’t imagine working at a place like that. Those homeless folks have only themselves to blame and yet it’s men like us, the hard-working taxpayers of this country, who pay for their mistakes. We make our money deservedly and half of it gets deducted to feed their dirty habits.”

            Ordinarily, I would have said something but I kept my mouth shut. After all, his statement did hold a degree of truth insofar as my circumstances. It was down to my own foolish behaviour that landed me without any money. In another world, I might have continued washing dirty dishes and scrubbing floors, except I got desperate to make a name for myself. Though, that was not the case for most homeless folks. It’s easy for people like Mr. Hewitt to say, ‘you should have tried harder at school’ or ‘you shouldn’t have got into the wrong crowd’ when he was raised by a wealthy family that could afford to hire a tutor or send him away on sports holidays during the summer. He wrongly assumes that we all start at the same point in life and anyone lagging behind is lazy. That is not true. The man who came from humble beginnings must fight wolfishly hard to even reach the Hewitts of this world. I almost said as much to Mr. Hewitt himself, but luckily, we had arrived at his doorstep.

            “How much further do you live, Marlon?” he asked.

            “Not too much longer,” I said. “I live a couple of roads over.”

            He smiled. “I thought you looked rather familiar. Well, I look forward to hearing from you again. Remember to give me a call before ten and we shall arrange something for this week.”

            As soon as Mr. Hewitt disappeared out of view, I started back towards the homeless shelter. I needed a bed for the night. Before then, however, I searched about my pockets for change. I managed to amass sixty pence from the depths of my briefcase, covered faceless with dirt and smut, but sixty pence no less. Though it might not seem much, it was like a winning lottery ticket in my eyes. I tucked the coins back in my pocket and went searching for the nearest payphone.