Gordon was from the same streets as us, a generation older in body, but still one of us. As teenagers we mocked him, laughed at his involuntary leaning when walking and his flickering, frightened eyes. As I grew older, I stopped laughing at Gordon-we all did. The next generation took that torch from us and kept it burning. Now it was us tutting and scolding them for shouting out ‘Oi, Gordon, how long was he dead before you robbed his suit?’
We watched Gordon walking down the middle of the road in a black suit that seemed to melt into the tarmac under his feet. It was the only time he was at peace I think. His eyes were that of a man in another street, another city, another mind altogether. When he walked in front of that long black car he wasn’t Gordon the ‘mental’, he was Gordon the loyal servant of the deceased doing his bit for his dearly departed brethren. No one laughed at him then.
I saw him today scurrying along our street in a suit a size too big. I smiled at him through the window but his eyes never met mine. I watched the kids shout ‘spazzer’ and made a cup of tea.
