Under the Elephant

I watch you sink to my level; a great river of you, passing under
the Elephant. I can tell from your screwed up noses and your quickening
pace that it stinks down here, an acrid mix of piss and bleach. But if
you live with something for long enough you get used to it. I can smell
nothing till I stick my head up above the ground and draw in a lungful
of the poisoned air you surface dwellers suck at all the time. Fumes
don't reach down here. That's one thing.

And it's quiet, that's another. That thunderous traffic rumbling over
my head is muted by twenty feet of good, solid concrete. It's true,
concrete's not that comfy for sleeping, but as I say you get used to
it. You get used to the rough tiles on the walls, all clammy and cool
to lean against. You get used to time being upside down, to daylight
gloom and glaring strip lit nights. I've learnt this labyrinth by
heart, I know it back to front, and it makes me chuckle to see you
walking past, walking back, pretending you know where you're going.
They're tricksy, these twisting passages. Time after time you emerge
blinking, defeated, in a different place, never where you thought you'd
be.

You ebb and you flow, always the same: the rush hour surge, followed by
echoing emptiness. Evening's best for "Spare a little change, please?"
- when you're heading back to your cosy home and your family. Oh, I see
your pity. But you needn't feel sorry for me. I've got my own company
down here. See that mural over there? That's Charlie Chaplin in that
picture. I don't know why they painted him in a shiny blue frock;
artistic license I suppose, unless there was more to him than met the
eye. He lived round here, once. And along from him, you see that
outdoor caf? painted in great swirls of colour? That's a famous picture
done by Vincent Van Gogh. Ah, surprised you, haven't I? Well, I know
more than you might think. I know that even though he was a foreigner
Vincent lived here too, or near enough. He lived just down the road,
with some old tart - though he was meant to be a man of God. I've a lot
in common with Vincent; I'm a Christian woman myself, and as well as
that we've both of us seen some hard times. I imagine us sat at one of
those little outside tables, chatting over a can of Special - though
he's not a big drinker, Vincent, unlike me. We're in France somewhere,
so it feels warm even after the sun's gone down, and the air smells of
blossom and cigars. You'd think I might feel out of place, but not a
bit of it, since there's all sorts of people painted here, black people
as well as white, and a lot of them quite scruffy too. I feel right at
home.

I know they've got plans for my burrow. I listen to your conversations,
and I've heard all the talk about smartening up the Elephant.
Regeneration, that's what they call it. Well, I don't think
regeneration's got anything going for me. What is there for me, up
there? I don't want to slink along the edges of roads, living in
borrowed space alongside all that traffic. No, I've made up my mind: if
they're going to seal up these tunnels, I'm staying down here with my
friends. Me and Charlie and Vincent. We'll get along just fine.