Observations of Mick

Let me introduce myself.


I am an observer. An observer of people and life, of the
fresh and worn faces, the rich, the poor, those who live a straight
jacket life and those who do not. I have no story to tell but merely an
observation, or a snapshot if thats how you want to see it, to give to
you.


Mick was a subject of mine.


An old town tramp whose paper crumpled face and woolen white
hair suggested a life only few experience. I only knew his name as I
had heard it called out by others greeting him as they passed by the
worn down dust riddled step of the run down post office he would sit on
each day. I wondered how they knew.



Sitting there, not saying a word, knees pressed to
his chest, wearing a stained and ripped knee length coat which was too
big for him by at least two sizes. With a frown of concentration he
would roll tobacco between his fingers which were a palette of yellow,
black and brown, before swabbing the rolling paper around his shaggy,
beard ridden mouth and scooping it in between his lips in a well
rehearsed movement.


Mick loved his wine, oh yes Mick loved his wine, and this was
no bargain bin tramp. Mick's wine was carefully selected.I saw him in a
supermarket once surrounded by his proud bottle soldiers standing to
attention all around him, beckoning to be chosen for the mission in
hand, his gnarled bony fingers gently caressing them. At times his hand
would stop and grasp a neck, carefully removing it from its position
for inspection, before being replaced to again rejoin it's comrades
once more. After much inspection two suitable candidates had been found
and off an expectant Mick went to the checkout with that hunched, ape
like walk of his that only he could perform so masterfully.



With his new friends for the day Mick homed his way back to
his step and took a seat on his cold throne, arching his back and
shuffling himself awkwardly in to position ready for ritual of the
opening, while simultaneously delving his hand into his bottomless
pocket which somehow produced a dirty old corkscrew amongst scraps of
paper and other items only a tramp could need .


An expert un-corker of fine wines, the cork was soon making
the unenviable journey from its safe, secure place on the corkscrew to
join the other prisoners in the slum jail which was his pocket, while
the lip of the wine bottle made the even more unenviable journey to his
puckered lips.


The bottle would always be held at all times. Sometimes like
a mother cradling her baby. The intervals between sips would get more
and more frequent and like a train in the distance coming closer and
closer, a new Mick would arise. No longer would he sit there with no
words. A few incomprehensible words to himself would be the sign that
the new Mick was on his way. When he eventually arrived few were
spared. People walking past his door would be subjected to a peppering
of bad language blended in a way that made no sense to them but to Mick
made perfect sense.


What perplexed me about Mick was that now and again,
infrequently of course, a victim of his tongue would stop and talk to
him, taking no offence about what obscenities had just been thrown at
them (in however a random matter). When this opportunity arose his old
face would slowly melt from the scowling madman in to a serene but
pitiful man, who would willingly chat and converse with more than a
ounce of charm. Sometimes a few coins would be placed in to Mick's palm
which he would close his fingers around in a swift motion, eyes slowly
looking to the floor as if looking at it for help to hide his obvious
embarrassment of the one way transaction that had taken place.



I heard people talking that many years ago, when the face
wasn't so badly scarred by time and his thoughts less suggested by
wine, that Mick had been a fine artist with the brush, a professional
in fact, I listened to two old ladies, each with full shopping bags in
one hand and the other hands gesturing excitingly to each other as they
spewed memories from their heads to they're mouths inbetween searching
for superlatives to describe his talent.


I do not know where Mick made his bed, nor if he washed and
brushed his teeth although I doubt he did, nor did I worry about it, it
was no concern of mine, although on those mornings when I drew the
curtains of my snug bedroom to find a crisp white lawn and hear the
wind filling every nook and cranny I wondered, only wondered, how his
body and soul could accept such an unforgiving world. Or perhaps today
is the day it hadn't I sometimes thought to myself.


One fresh spring day, you know the type, when the daffodils
in full bloom are shaking they're heads rhythmically to the gentle
winds which are just beginning to carry in the scent of the new life
and hope of summer, I took a walk along the busy street where Mick
would surely be sitting, drinking, talking and berating someone. Mick's
street.


The step was empty, its bareness lit it up, Mick had gone.



Where he had gone I don't know, nobody seems to know. Some
said he had been fished out of the local canal, but in time as with
many rumours these thoughts died away. Why he decided to go and how he
got there nobody knows. Perhaps he has gone to find his fortune but I
doubt it. I like to think that maybe he is somehow, somewhere, painting
potraits of men, women and children, his staple of the street, but I
doubt it.


There is a litter of people walking the same streets
everyday, some I can't recognise and some I can. Significance and
insignificance fill the streets and doorways of the hustle and bustle
and I watch the procession as it waves to me in its own unique way each
time it passes by.


This is all I know of Mick. You know its funny how some
people can impact your life even when you don't know much about them or
even know them. I cannot remember him arriving but I remember him
leaving.