I made my way hurriedly home. My feet stumbling across the cavernous sidewalks of the poorly-maintained city streets, attempting to avoid eye contact, not to mention physical contact with any of the similarly fast-milling drones on their journeys. No doubt, they mostly comprised the same city workers who, like me, couldn’t afford a plush centre apartment, instead resorting to living among the proletariat and underclasses in these less expensive areas. The taste of some exotic plant smoke caught in my throat reminding me the area was alien to me, foreign tongues from all around reminded everyone who would listen that this city was alien to all of us.
A home to nobody, this rundown city I called home.
From across the street, I made my way towards the next block of post-war concrete buildings, all of which had been taken over by the same family, though the naïve wouldn’t know; Khan the lawyer specialising in immigration services held offices next to Preshulme Electronics, ran by his two cousins, and the Forbidden Spice restaurant, seemingly always empty, was the original family business. For the briefest moment, the gridlocked traffic parted, the sea of red brake lights splitting enough to let me through.
As I hit the pavement outside Forbidden Spice, I heard teenage jeers and yelps; a sound that brought out a primitive fear in me stemming from my adolescence. I wanted to pass on by, but fate or obligation made me detour enough to see what the gang was up to. There were four of them; three teenage boys, one girl. One of the lads stood back by the girl, the other two boys ringleaders, no doubt vying for the attention of the girl as teenage boys are programmed to do.
They were throwing random detritus into the lap of what looked to be an old homeless woman, jeering as they did. When one, the largest, most boisterous of the pair of instigators, spat at the wretched vagrant, I felt a compulsion to act.
“That’s enough,” I said, regretting the sounds that sprang from my mouth as soon as I’d uttered them. Then regretting more that I’d have to repeat it again; the two teenagers who hung back had heard me, the two lags not so much.
This time I grabbed the larger one, tugging at his shoulder to encourage him to face me as I said in a louder, more forceful tone, “That’s enough.”
Within the next few seconds, all manner of things flashed into my mind that told me I was out of water; some primitive part of my brain had taken note of the width of the kid’s shoulders, asked myself whether I’d have to fight, what I might say next, and whether I should have, should have obviously just walked past and gone about getting home to the microwave meal I’d prepped three nights ago.
The momentum of my shoulder grab turned the lad. I saw his brown eyes light up with surprise then anger, and I braced myself. No doubt, his body was running through the same bestial calculations mine had. A little bit of me told me to swing now before he came around. I didn’t.
“What’s your problem, mate?” said the youth.
It took me more than a moment, and I tried to muster something with calmness, not knowing whether I had it in me. “Off you go,” was the best I could do.
The kid looked around at his friends, never fully taking his eyes off my position. He strained a laugh that came across as less ensured than he intended, then walked with a swagger that was obviously fake, “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he motioned to his friends, making sure to ram his left shoulder into mine as he went; another bravado display undone by the fact he had to change direction immediately to get wherever he was going.
I stood momentarily in a stunned silence until it was barely broken by a meek “Thank you” from somewhere below my waist.
I looked down, for the first time, at the homeless woman. My next battle was trying not to have a visceral reaction to her appearance. She seemed impossibly old, bedraggled, a horror. I didn’t know whether it was the drugs or a hard life they might have caused that caused her to look this way; her hair matted, her skin broken and sore, her clothes tattered, torn and barely staying whole.
“It’s OK” I replied, and I put my hand down to comfort her, although I hoped she wouldn’t take it. She didn’t, and it hung awkwardly in the air.