A Busker's Odyssey

Everybody has a day to remember, some, I am sure they have more that one. They are the lucky ones; they have birthdays, anniversaries and celebrations. The 6th July 2006 had Germany stand still in silence and for once the same feelings, hopes, regrets, illusions , and miss opportunities were share in each own mind. That day was my birthday, I was homeless and Italy had just won the big prize. - We are the champions!-.I miss home and my Led Zeppelin’s albums.

Squatting the pavement on Dean Street, Soho, my eyes peeped through the waving flags to witness the captain’s coronation. A happy farewell for the last of modern hero and the unknown need for an express check out of there forcedly began to move my feet towards North. I had thirty minutes walk before to be even close to Euston railway-underground station and not too much time to talk about it. Let’s think man shut up and let’s everyone think.

I did not have a clue but I had the right gear for beginners; I was wearing the right gear for beginners. Trainer’s shoes were my way to say no to the increase of bus fares, a pair of blue jeans, t-shirts and a pullover. The rucksack on my back filled with daily underwear and socks and a copy of JK diary. An agonize mobile phone on the last led of battery life and an unpaid twenty pack of Mayfair felt inside my front pockets; each one in its side. On my wallet between the dusts found life a ten pounds note and the plastic of my NI card.

Euston station’s waiting room was warm enough to fetch dreams to my closing eyes. I had the wiliness to follow those mirages in my sleep but men in a security uniform had taken the pleasure to keep me awake just, I guessed, for pure fun. The next morning the strong desire for one of the drugs I most use had eventually overcome the petulant Eastern-European cleaner. I left the station with an eighty pence cup of bland coffee. I did not worry for an instant if I was taking the right turn or the left turn. I was not even sure I taken a turn.

The early morning air was crisp and hospitable. Outside the station the night buses were leisurely be replace by the daily buses. Night watchers and early workers paraded discordantly the change of the guards for the glowing of everyday chores. The world did not suffer my absence and it did not become upset for my miss contribution to its turning. Not either I was I. I was bore so I decided to make my way to Leicester square and its public toilettes.

The desolation was evident and the reminders of the night before were collect and recycle according their what about.: papers with papers, plastic with plastic, glass with broken glass and the drunks , the lost and the solitaire hearts left to recall partners names between Bacardi Breeze and spilled beer. Around the square I had not difficulty to notice the gathering of weird and noisily fluorescents jackets all well trained against that dirt. I made my way down to the men’s toilette.

Another man was there but thanks’ to the numerous sinks, urinals and toilettes I did not have to wait for the end of his relive. Our eyes met and simultaneity a grunt –Morning! - had politely broke the natural indifference. Both of us knew why we were there in that public lavatory instead to be under a steamy hot shower with the Terry’s sound as score of our next hours.

Don John was his name. He was not much taller that me with white, short hair and wise babble on. We exchanged gallantries. The conversation was basic, elementary almost childish. I had reverence to avoid any references to his past as well hide mine. I was a freshman. My face was not yet injured with time, I still had the glow of fresh shave, and my rucksack was smaller that his. I did not have experience and this was noticeable and dangerous. I put forward to him a couple of cigarettes to choice between my last four. He thanked me and suggested breakfast.

The American Church had opened the front doors for prayers and absolutions but not for us. Don and I had to stroll around the gay block to find our reserved entrance. Down from a steel stair a courtyard had table and benches, single chairs and half roof but not much more furniture. We took our seats, Don facing me, on the outdoor section of this little cafeteria; the only place where we were able to lit roll-ups. From the inside, where the roof was, a female voice was calling the lost sheep and with my surprise I spoke and understood the language of hunger.

During my morning absence the park went through a transformation. Three very different figures were shadowed by the green rare branches. I had to approach those possible sources of street’s awareness very carefully. The first who caught my sight was wearing a military jacket with the emblem of the Cuban revolution on its back. Short black hair and proud nose were the cliff of searching eyes. In front of him a shorter identity had rise to guard the intentions of my approach. The third man had a bottle of cider fill his hands as well his morning's thoughts.

From the rucksack I pulled a new pack of Amber Leaf tobacco, an expensive which had taken my finances under the five pounds, meantime I had to retort to a barrage of questions and answers. The third man’s name was Thomas: long thin Irish catholic immigrant. Twice married, twice divorce with child and daughters. The shorter was Ed from Glasgow, Celtic side. He was very talkative but difficult to understand. The principals of his rant were there but the accent and frequent moods changes made for me very difficult to follow. The others were able even to laugh to Ed’s consternations. Shame I did not get them.

I was humanly happy, I found more time to laugh to the misfits of this mundane routine. Mornings were dedicated to the toilettes of Leicester Square, Don and excellent peanut butter sandwiches of American export. The afternoons were spent in the park kicking a football and the pages of shoplifted newspapers until five o’clock when everyone had a place where to beg. The evening meals were provide to me by two close soup runs and every Thursdays I had reservation at “The Crypt” popular Italian restaurant oppose Kiss Cross station.

I shared my bedrooms with The Welsh and its iconic dirty jacket under the arches of London’s sky without hesitations. He knew the best spots around. Places save enough to sleep with the shoes off your feet without be afraid to be robbed next morning. Our relation was base in mutual consent and eyes for eyes mute contracts. He knew how survive and the more deep feelings; I was his confessional but never his judge plus I had always food. I knew of his cider morning breath as he was aware of my smoking addiction, a mere brick of cheap Moroccan hashish from Camden a week.

The week-ends were rich of character s of every sort of gender. The street to and from the station were fill by any sort creature living the city: early travellers escaping in the country to play golf with wives swapping comments about the last trends in organic rabbits, middle ages couple from behind the M25 purring excited for a night in Theatre land and its x rated local shops, they all looked to me like puritans in exile.

The park was busy too. I was not bored at all with those shows. No hour passed without a hint of craziness by the Cowboy and his sick monologues. Most of them annoyed Ed and Thomas to boiling point so much that both needed to be restrain with the help of a good dosage of cider. I was shocked as well by Cowboy’s behaviour and self armed pity. His clothes were always dark by the dirty past weeks and always black in principal or they had become. A leather jacket and a hat both black were the uniform of a man without colour, a rebel without his motorbike. I never had to picture death until then but I was positive that it had Cowboy’s grim and Jewish nose.

A touch of glitter was endowed with the help of two beauties from the maze of alleys behind Euston road. Their names were Sonya and Jess. Sonya was the old one, twenty –something years of brunette with irrelevant female fixtures and a primitive spelling. She had always put a –Fuck! –at begin of her short sentences. Sonya liked have a cock in her mouth, literally; she was using this infatuation to fundraising another addiction. I thought about her aloud with The Welsh a couple of nights but either of us did not felt the pleasure of an erection; we were not man enough for her. Jess had a long neck and the depression of a miscarriage. She did not turn twenty –two yet. Jess had me listen for hours her lost dreams and new boyfriends. She had run away from him when she found quite difficult to call that man “daddy”. Her mother was somewhere; after the separation she had started a new life. She did the life too. But I was too much confused to be able to express my commiserations and support. Jess was a flirt to me.

“The Crypt” was where I was having my weekly rehabs. I did not brag about it. I had the pleasure to taste basic luxuries and three courses hot meals. Thursday afternoon chores were cut short by the need to be at five o’clock in line; to be one of the firsts to sip the fresh made coffee’. It was a remainder of what home had to be: familiar newspapers and old ladies in the kitchen cooking, the garlic air, RAI news and old timeless drifts. I had to relate to my weakest skill: to be at the right place on the right time. I knew Lady Luck had her voice on my daily errands. I was having a nice plate of pasta when I heard for the first time those words.

-Twenty pounds is something! It is week-end of evolution-.

We saw each other eyes and we knew: two of the kind, a special breed, the lost tribe. We ended up sharing a cup of coffee sat on the step of one of many northern London churches. He was Jesus or a very good looks a like. J, his nick name, had officially introduced to a very noble way to living the streets. A bohemian existence made by life itself.
I was leaving the nest once more. The park, with all its tragic-comic actors and starlets, was a mere rite of passage, a courtesy towards few, Ed and Thomas in particular and I was still sharing my bedroom at St. Pancras with The Welsh. It was not painful at all.

Thank J I had improve my weekly income towards the twenty-five pounds a week. That Friday , follow J’ s suggestion , I made my way towards Vauxhall Underground where I was interviewed ,I was mug-shouted, I had a yellow badge with a serial number put around my neck and with an half –hour of training I was a Big Issues vendor. I went to see J at his squat the following Saturday for brief introduction to this new career.
I reported in duty at nine o’clock Monday morning like a good employee of the month near Covent Garden where the zone manager handed me the first ten free copies. I was told my training pitch was Acre Lane under the vigilant sign of the local Body Shop. I was instructed how behave and others terms and conditions. My gains were the difference between the price of copies to me purchased and the community’s purchases. After a week I was able to enjoy J hunting down Kingsway Road. J had he south side and I had ground few yards north off Holborn station in front Starbuck and middle class working England.

We had set up a schedule to make those days a working joy. We spend alone the best part of the morning hours to be reunited again around two o’clock when the street was beaming a desolation of double-deckers and the pavements were empty. J had found a small green space behind the main artery and after ninety-nine pence Mc Donald lunch it was routine to spend a couple hours sat on the grass, smoking grass. We had more in common that just our profession. Both were conceived between the students up rising of Paris and the Moon landing which, according to our common philosophies were both forms of achievements without compromises if they were meant for the better. Both of us had an excellent taste in woman. Both had even set off disparities between our oddities. Most of the banned bibles were shelved in our reading. Clouds went up in smoke when both were so exhausts of made everything sound so normal, a sheer consequence of not our doing. The silence was always long enough to smoke a joint. After those little breaks we had to come back to our post to have a couple more hours with the slow late afternoons to end it all around five o’clock making our way to our precarious accommodations.

The weather had left us as well. Autumn with its chill nights and wet days has taken charge with no pleasantries of that short, hot, English summer .It was only begin August. I went long way from Dean Street but I still did not found comfort in my last improvements. I had the budget of three Amber Leaf hard boxes at week and a five pounds of hashish; I had at least two full meals at day; I bought razors and my appearance was not so hairy any more but I was still laid down in the night on top of dismantled cartoon boxes and my sleeping bag was not soft enough to sweeten the hard core of a pavement floor. I had a roof over my head but I did not have any walls around it.
It was with those thoughts in mind I started my search for a suitable and stable adjustment for my struggle. J had suggested opening another squat near his. He told me of plenty of possibilities around his estate where at least two out of four houses were ready to be desecrated. There was not need for any particular skill; just I had to have a crowbar and a new door’s lock to replace the old one.”Force entry” had always sounded dirty to my ears, polluted with the disturbing images of women’s cry and despair. I was not very keen towards this solution but as act of friendship I told J I was considering any proposals with a very open mind. Home was much better.

My sleep was troubled in those nights and the dreams did not help at all towards the only target I had: to sleep. The cold, the fear and the necessity to be awake to guard my shoes had my nerves jumpy. I saw myself handcuffed by her Majesty‘s policemen on my way to the dungeon .I saw myself stand in front to the judge facing a jury too much excited of its guilty sentence. I saw my mother cry and I was not allowed to share her tears. I was vegetating in a deadly routine of failures which I was not.
My third week as Big Issues vendor was coming to an end when I won the jackpot. I was sit outside Euston station with a cup of black coffee and my shoplifted newspaper when I saw a couple approach my oasis of relative tranquillity. Their names were Charles “the black” and Edward “the pale”.
They had the smell of aftershave and the enthusiasm of fresh graduate social workers. Two” a vanguard” posts in the battle against the cancers of modern society. Edward was in charge of the entire operation; he started to explain their mission and commitments to me. Charles was merely listening to Edward’s speeches more intent to tick-box the questionnaire in front him with my monosyllabic answers. My diffidence was visible for everyone to see. Their tags were ornate with the logos of the house near the Thames, the same house which had many like me wonder about a tomorrow. Slowly the barriers between us had felt and I had understood that in front of me there was the vision of a bed, maybe more. We had parted with the promise to see each other again in few days time when Charles and Edward will come back from another city’s rescue; mine was in its way according to them.

I told J about them but he was not impressed at all and he had very good reasons. He was caught in a dilemma of absurd simplicity. He did not have a home because he did not have a job; he did not a job because he did not have a bank account and he did not have a bank account because he did not have a home. When he had try to found a solution to broke that vicious circle his name went lost between various home office’s databases to became another perceptual point. He was very keen to highlight the perils I was to encounter with my dealing with English’s paper-pushers.
Jess had come to see me that same evening after someone had report to her of my meeting with my rescue team. Charles and Edward were known to the park’s citizen but they did not have the thrust of many. Jess had acquaint with them many time before but a result had never materialized .She was afraid I was set up my confidence too high and she did not want for me the same crash landing she had. I thanked her for her concerns but I was sure that if I was to be offer the tools I will be able to reclaim my place between stereotypes maybe even to recover some of my lost dignity .That night I had her in my sleeping back. It was not out of lust but an act of compassion between two fragile entities. –Goodnight Love- but her and my eyes were all ready close before one of us had the chances to kiss.
The days were rich of frustrations. I was weakened by everything and life itself, even one with my commodities, was beginning to appear more and more like a war never to be won. The words of comfort by J and the tender hugs by Jess were not enough to soften the hardship of what was around me. My rage was direct to Cowboy and his rants, to The Welsh’s snore, to Ed and Thomas with their permanent request of money and cigarettes and to my believes.

I had to meet Charles and Edward at six o’clock that Wednesday away to the eyes of the park. I knew that if I was to be spotted with them the possibility to leave what I was calling home will never show up or evolve from its primordial status. Charles was all smiles when he told me that I was suitable to enter their project. Edwards insisted to point out how in the past days he and his team had work hard to select the possible best accommodation for me: a recycled jail in Parker Street.
I had to wait for one a those convicts to break free. I was given a mobile charger by Charles to recharge my dead phone and I was left behind once more with the promise of one single phone call. Two days later a ringtone had its first thrill in a very long time.
Parker Street House was a grey building situated on the corner of two nameless streets .I was escorted by two new guardian angels when I entered the green reception where we were to meet the deputy manager. He had laid out the rules for me. My signature on the dot line was to give me a room on the second floor, room B4. Breakfast was to be served every morning, week-end included, between eight o’clock and half past eight and it will cost twenty pence a day .It was the only hot meal of the day. The room was to be left vacant before nine to be clean and nourish by the sanitary army. The visits were permit from two o’clock in the afternoon until ten o’clock in the evening when visitors had to leave the building and the main doors were to be close. The abuse of drugs and alcohol was not permit; the use of drugs and alcohol was understood. I was book for a medical examinations and mental assessments for next day to give to my Strategy-worker an hint of hope. There were common showers and toilette in each floor and a laundry room in a room just outside the internal courtyard. I was show the room and for that night I was able to close the outside world outside.

Jess was right but men like me had always a way to take pleasure from what we can not have. Room B4 was no more that a cell with optional included. In a six square meter space a dwarfed single bed with white sheet and military cover was the focal point. On my left facing the small window opposite to the door a bay with few shelves was my storage area. The concrete partition placed in the middle of the left wall had the duty to give privacy to a sink and his neon. There were two yellow towels too. I had no much more around expect for the hanging bulb hanging itself high from the sealing. I had a long shower and a jerk-off before go to sleep empty.
My trips to the park had drop to a minimum. I was around there just when J and I went to “The Crypt” and just short enough to be catching up with the obituaries and new deployments of its community. Thomas was rescue again by his ex –wives and daughters. He had move out of London’s park and benches to go to live in an institution. He was only allowed to let be out under sane supervision. Ed, crazy as he was, still preferred the open air of early September’s nights instead of a comfortable bedsit up Canning Town. The Welsh had fallen the count the past four morning reckoning; he was to be declare AWOL. Jess and I had decided to friendly break-up our daily commitments; we had needed each others but no badly as we were expecting. I had left her at the main entrance of the American Church with my phone number in her hand and a pick of the skinny cheeks.
Business was good. Park Street House was hiding from the eyes of the city but it was well located to make my working life easier. I had ten minutes walk to the distribution point and from there an other ten to be at the pitch every time before nine o’clock in time for the first rush of commuters out of Holborn Station. J was to meet me at my pitch during the raining day to have a break in my room for our daily smoke and I was in my way south any time the weather left us sit on the open. The moneys were first-rate too for someone became use to live for less of ten pounds a week.

I had a sort of weekly regular buyers most of them women and secretaries but the blue collar pricks were always welcomes. I was selling about forty, forty –five copy a week which was enough to cover the expensive of my vice. Ms Cox was one of them.
Ms Cox had a shy smile and big breast. In her way down to the road she halted to my –Good Morning! - and, after she bought me a magazine, she had the pleasure to tease her way in my dirty wishes. Day by day I was more attracting by those magnets of mammal luxury and slow the conversation became more intimate and detailed. Sometime out the blue she was just skip away , in silence .Her eyes were fix to somebody else, another potential target for her solitude , to come back to me later with chocolate biscuits and a large décolleté. I went for her. I was confident that she knew a good deal of me. She did.

Our appointment was the follow Friday at seven o’clock on my pitch. I had manage to scrap enough to buy a new pair of blue jeans and clean shirt for the date without knowing what to aspect from Ms Cox. We went in a Pizza Express near Trafalgar Square. The small talk was done by her most of the time; I had just to answer with questions to let time go. My efforts were more concentrated in avoid my sight slip past the open zip her blouse. We had our pizza deliver with a couple of glass of white wine and sparkling water for me and left alone in our corner of world.
Ms Cox was a divorce analyst manager with no kids. I was a thirty-nine years old man with no much. We were the perfect couple; a physical attraction was developing between us made mostly by the aspiration to have another go to what no one of us knew but had tasted in the past. The rain had start to pour down more and more when we left downtown strolling our way back to my place. Ten o’clock was too much close to enjoy romance and the dark of a red phone box was the close alcove where I was to free Ms Cox of her sensual burdens. It was brutal as animal do, like mating; two beasts of the same disillusion pack. I felt used, a toy boy for the price of a meal. I had see Ms Cox walk her way to the office on the opposite pavement. She was still wearing the same leather boots. She was satisfy of any of her requests.

My friendship with J was coming to a momentary end. From the far land of Mexico a long forgotten relative was in contact with him: his mother. Our breaks were now moments of emotional struggle for the both of us. My mother had a vague idea about my what, where and whom was my life now. J’s mother was ill by his absence and she was begging to give up his nomad life to return to live the son’s life she had mould for him. J was miss more the Mexican‘s sun that his mother and this was enough for a easy decision. Two weeks later Jesus left the building a board a DC747 to Mexico City. I saw it from my room’s windows.
Doc had my physical and mental results ready to discuss. From behind his spectacles he was wondering how the turn around of my fortunes had dried itself. My body had nothing to hide; my lungs were tarnished by years of smoke, both active and passive, my vitals were surprising at acceptable levels, nothing which were possible to cure with a swap to healthy life, I was underweight. My mental health was troubling the Doc. He had notice how my coexistence with the others tenants was not flourish. I had to explain to him I did not found any interests whatsoever in sharing with others. I had several issues regarding the behaviour of some of them. I was rolling my observations when Ian Naught entered the room. Ian Naught was a tall, skinny young man about thirty-five year of age. He was wearing an open shirt on top of a commemorative Metallica black t-shirt with blue-jeans and white trainers. He was looking bored but his ears were alert to any good vibe. Ian was a strategy-worker and I was his case.

Ian and Doc had to realise me after a good hour of questioning, there was nothing more I had to add to the forms and evaluations I had to pen down to clarify what I had felt and I was, now, feeling. I was a man with no more goals just the vague illusion of what it was suppose to be.
For sure it was not suppose be like it was. In front of me there was a repertoire of living examples of the possible ends. Some days I was Bob with his morning rants and cider. Other days I was Al: brain-dead blob who had the tendency to wonder naked around the place or maybe I was suppose to be the guy in room B6 who, to alleviate the pain of a separation from his wife, had discover syringes and their fictional paradises. I had to get out of there before I was to entangle my comatose will to this mortal no-existence. Alone under the electric neon of my room I was plain my jailbreak.
The phone conversation was not all so smooth. Between the sobs and cries few words of wonder had present me in plain words her desire to come back in time when everything was to look like a fairytale for princesses in the making. Jess was ill by the painful roll of time. She was marvel how to pursue her search for happiness even if it was the last task for a soul all ready dead. We were to meet next Saturday in Clapham Junction.
When I had her on my side it was not difficult to understand why Jess had bandages around the right wrist. She was rescue by an ambulance about two weeks ago when, after an oral performance, her new boyfriend had the good taste to leave on her face the dark marks of a ten minute relation. Coldly, with medical precision and terminology, Jess told me how the blade had torn her veins open and the blood had start to flow. The ambulance had rescue her just in time to give to a crap life another go. Now she was doing that or trying to do so. Jess, after the intervention of some charities, was a guest of a Women’s centre where under supervision she was learning to walk alone again. She had to share the same room with three more girls and she had lipstick. She was attending the internal courses in cooking and tailoring. She was smiling and rosy as she was before run away. I was happy to see her like that. We had few hours by our self before our evening curfews. It was nice walking her, hand in hand, around the Junction with the presumption to be in love if love was. Some time later my friend Jess, age twenty-three, was found lifeless hanging by two nurses in the common shower room. The brief suicidal note was of no meaning for many. – To Duke. I am sorry. Love Jess- I had to be guilty.

I was guilty. The reflection of my face had hand out the verdict and that was no appeal. I had run trough my childhood, my puberty, my sexual discovers without consideration or any safety measures and without regrets for my actions. Now I was crash by the weight of my inconsiderable single-minded obsessions; the man reflected by the mirror under the artificial light-neon was a man who I did not recognize.
Life had not to be eternal to be too heavy to carry. Jess‘s auto-finish had prove that life had always interfere with dreams. There was not a explanation in my mind strong enough to absolve Jess ; suicide had been an easy cover too many time against ourselves to be taken in consideration and it was unfair to enlist Jess with cowards . Everyone had to have an end, someone before others.

My stay at Parker House was coming to its conclusion as well. My second meeting with Ian, that month, was all in preparation for my depart in two weeks time. He found a room south of the river. After the forms , raging from personal details, medical records and an inspirational questionnaire, were complete I was made aware the Ian’s referral had to be accept by the board of that institution and if its member were please by my damage head and moody self-esteem the move was an affair of a couple of red double-decker busses. It was fine for me.
Our first meeting was hold in my room just after the news of Jess’s death had reach Ian’s ears. Ian knew about how important was the presence of Jess, even with her misfortunes, for my daily living was. The get-together had the informality of friendships. Ian had the good taste to leave his status and his job outside the door; his intentions were to give me an honest shoulder to punch my frustration and to fight my fears. I had the strength to let all out. My future was not a future but blur images of what were my dreams and the reality of what was my present and my struggle to find an escape from that paradox. Ian knew it, the Doc knew it and Jess was the only meaning I had to achieve it. I always been an unselfish bastard; I was not training to step over others for personal appreciation and what Ian was asking to do was just that. The setback for my triumph was only one: me. To learn to be self-centred or to remaining one between invisible many; not a simple dilemma for a wondering mind like mine.
The day was bright enough to be late November. I was standing with Ian waiting the bus number 63 towards south London. I had my rucksack over my shoulder and another sporty bag filled with my various properties and junk. Ian, beside me, had is head somewhere else and my files nicely collected in a blue folder with my name on. There was not much conversation between the two of us, just nervous smiles. We had achieve our goals. Mine was to leave Parker House mentally wounded by a future of uncertainty and a past too hard to be forgotten but with the expectation of more unvarying hours. His motive were more noble; another box to be tick and another responsibility to hand over. We were too embarrassed to share our guilty pleasure between us. We were happy to be left alone with the taste of our success and its consequences.
They were expecting us. A couple of signatures later I was escort by Ian and a tall black man with the name of Greek good to my new room on the three floor. My accommodation was one of five other on the third floor on the B wing section. It had to two showers, two bathrooms and a common area with an old TV. A tender lady with a maternal smile was preparing my bed like only caring mothers can do. I was given a cup and clean towels. I spend my first night looking outside my window listening old rock and thinking about Jess and the many who I had met during my odysseys. I was tide up lose ends with the help new convictions and a new drive. I was again running the proud highway towards my final destination.