-About a Boy-

He was tired and hungry, and you could tell that he was so by the way he grasped at the clear plastic bag holding the twenty or so odd sandwiches that looked exactly like the one he was bolting down. His devouring manner was that of an animal - not taking pleasure in what was being eaten, but eating for survival. I was scared by the ferocity of the motions and looked away. But the other passengers were drunk, it was a Saturday night afterall, and one of them made a slurred comment on the colour of the sandwich fillings.
"Eh, that's as may be to you, but this lot here is my whole day's meal."
He said quickly in response to the red-eyed drunk who was peering across the aisle at him now in surprise and, possibly, fear. I tensed - I was sitting opposite the two of them - and images of bloody fist fights came to mind. But the drunk had some form of manners. He stopped grinning along with his mates, and cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry."
He said. The boy wiped his hands on his dirty torn up jeans and said,
"That's all right."
"So. Where're the sarnies from then?"
"From this fellow who runs a caff for us up near Richmond. This guy Dick, he makes food for us and gives it out after hours."
"He's a good man, then."
"Yeah, he's all right."

I was watching the boy's hands - coarsened by exposure to the elements, they resembled tree bark - dark, callused and bruised here and there with small cuts. The stench of hours spent outside emanating from him made my own smoke-filled hair smell relatively fresh. But he was wearing square glasses that magnified his clear eyes. The drunk was silent for a bit, his head nodding away like a demented monk in time with the jolting of the train carriage, then he asked,
"So what's it like living rough then?"
The boy shrugged. The drunk persisted.
"Don't you have to fight and all that? For your corner?"
"Well, you do have to. Some of them treated me real rough in the beginning, you know, you have to just fight them all to make sure they know your place, you know. It's the worst down under Waterloo Bridge, don't know if you know about the place down there."
He was referring to 'Cardboard City', the horror of a homeless person's gathering, a place under the elegant bridge that was strewn with sad boxes and mattresses and stank of piss, where occasionally 'celebrities' would go to demonstrate their social conscience by wafting around them, talking to them, giving interviews.

"So what's it like now then? Do you have to fight still? Are you still out there then?"
"Nah. I got into a hostel. I'm on my way there now. It's not great but it'll do for now."
"So what are you going to do from now on?"
I was listening at the two of them talk and watching their reflections on the glass window next to me. Not that either of them would have cared if I had bothered to show my interest - they were engrossed with each other. The boy was my age - in his late teens - though his voice was rough as sand on a remote beach. The sandwich bag was now lying on his lap, although his fist was still clutching it tightly. He said,
"I'm going to get some money saved up. I'm working at Dick's some days, see. Then some day I'll start on a photography course at the local college."
"So you're interested in photography are you."
The boy grinned ever so slightly at this, dropping his menacing glare for once, nodding.
"Yup. I saw these black and white landscape photos once, and they were beautiful, so I thought I'd like to take some of those."
"Ah yes, photography is a great thing, s'nit. You're doing well, lad, you're doing well."

I had missed my station while listening to these two, three stations ago. With a sigh I realised I couldn't carry on until Richmond listening to them, so I stepped out at the next station into the rainy night while the two continued to talk.


Cardboard City -a poem and photos
The Big Issue
Bath students do their bit for the homeless