The old man pulled another news paper page onto his body. Garrit was tall. The long bones made him a bit clumsy. Only thin muscles wrapped around his frame. The scuffed slacks and stained shirt draped him. He lied on the ground with packed pebbles -- black, gray, and white once. The spread out newspaper provided a little cover from the soft win and warmth from the fresh air.
He looked at the stony ground, the bricks at the boundary, and the grass further away. Beyond the grass was a black painted railing to keep park visitors out of the Thames. His gaze drifted to the dark green and thick bushes that broke up the park into smaller spaces. There was the bench area beneath trees. There was the giant flat lawn for sunbathing in summer. A little platform was rarely used for concerts of amateur musicians.
The days had been drifting by since Garrit had moved into the park. He was a couple years shy of retirement. He had been fired from his hospital job for a mess that he created there. The following refreshment concierge job at a movie theatre had barely kept him paying rent. When his vindictive supervisor woman had seen him at the movie theater, she had thrown a tantrum with management until he was fired. Three months later, the police had moved his belongings onto the curb. A passing dog had promptly peed on his bed. The owner woman had instigated a verbal battle with him, because he had tried to shoo the dog away and the owner was strictly against negative reinforcement.
Garrit hadn't quite known what to do. So, he went to his favorite park, the cherished weekend activity. He had sat down on a bench until the sun went down. Still not knowing what to do, his body had told him to go to sleep with many yawns. Garrit obliged and slept on the bench. His body was stiff from the cold in the morning. Yet, Garrit was almost bliss-like relief had realized that life continues. Somehow, he had dreaded the first day in the streets fearing that everything would disintegrate. In truth, nobody cared. Things just continue.
The tight feeling in his stomach felt like his intestines had been glued together with superglue. That's what hunger felt like these days. He rustled himself out from under the newspaper pile. His knees moved like rusted after lying on the hard ground. A few minutes of walking would warm him up. Just always be careful to never sweat, because once wet, the chills are horrible.
Garrit shuffled toward the bush with the red berries behind lovers' lane. Lovers' lane were the benches facing the Thames. At the base of the bush was his hidden stash. He fished a can with a green and white label out. Peaches again! Canned peaches were very common at the food bank. It had something to do with agricultural overproduction due to government farm subsidies.
For a can opener, a screw driver found in a trash can had to do. Garrit carefully held the can away from him on the green park bench. He had learned that the force required to pierce the white metal container was so strong that it made his hits imprecise. The imprecision had caused him much harm and injury. So, here he went again -- tack, tack, tack. He hit the can often enough, until he could leverage the top off the can. He carefully zipped the sugary peach liquid off. The can edges were razor sharp.
Munching down on the slippery, jelly-like, yellow peach halves put a certain cheer into him and a smirk around his lips. Energy flowing into the belly will do that. He enjoyed watching the lazy, long cargo boats pass. They barely seemed to move through that dark, green water. He tried to chew the canned peaches as best as he could to draw out the time that he had something to eat. Yet, they were too soggy. They quickly liquefied and disappeared down his throat.
He kept the lid as a cutting tool and threw the can into a park trash can that was made with black metal to look a bit like a statue instead of a mere trash receptacle. Next, he meandered into the nearby streets. A walk was his form of exercise. He knew that exercise helped shave off depression. And, he needed to stay mentally sane, especially living in the street.
The nearby businesses were in quaint little stores. The store windows were more like residential windows than floor-to-ceiling commercial districts. Regular light bulbs lit up the mom and pop stores. One sold a red rocking horse. Another sold hand made crochet sweaters. All the store signs were lit up, because the afternoon with the thick clouds was already dark.
Occasionally, a pedestrian passed him. They had their coats fastened tight to almost cover their faces. Thick scarves closed out the world even more. Polished gold buttons of elder women signaled that they were above the street world. Seeing new and sharply pleated by a hot iron clothing always startled Garrit on the inside. It made him aware of his own raggedy appearance. The slow, reluctant acceptance that one little whole in his clothes wasn't too bad. Then, he'd accept two large holes. Yet, each time that he saw a prim dressed man with a felt coat, he felt shunned. He'd lower his gaze to avoid eye contact. He realized that he was dressed in rubble.
So, he made his route through the streets. Not so much the exercise tired him, but the emotional strain of fearing people, feeling embarrassed, and helpless about his situation. A block before the park, he opened a recycling bin to retrieve newspaper. Three thick pads of news paper would mean that he had extra warmth tonight -- a good catch.
After an hour or so, he returned to his park. The sun was gone a minute ago. With the daylight still in his eyes, the twilight was especially hard to see anything. The park was empty as usual. He strolled across the grass like it was his own. He rested on the bench, savoring the moment before having to crawl onto the ground for the night's rest.
A young woman walked down the path. The pebbles made a gnawing sound under her feet. She was red haired and perhaps 22 years old. With a casual swipe, she cleaned the bench seat next to Garrit and sat down. Her thick leather jacket with badges of anarchy symbols, British flag, and skull kept her comfortably warm. Her feet were clad in black combat boots. The shaft extended up her knee, where multiple wraparounds of laces held the boot in place.
They didn't acknowledge each other and looked straight ahead. Garrit's face was furrowed from age. The skin was sagging, because the connective tissue had loosened. Yet, the bone structure of his face marked his fine education as a coroner -- med school -- and his responsible care for diligence.
The young woman's face was slightly red, a little chubby just to give it heft and shape. A big nose piercing had a ring with a ball at the center of the ring. A rich red lip stick with black liner gave her a goth look. The eye shadow and eye liner were very dark making her eyes become intense black holes with piercing white parts of the eye.
"Are you homeless?"
"Yes."
"I brought you coffee."
The young woman handed Garrit a paper cup from an artisan coffee shop. The cup felt hot to Garrit's numb fingers. His skin had become dry, tough, and insensitive from the poor diet, age, and exposure to the elements day and night.
"Are you a hallucination?"
"Oh, poor old man, how far have you gone to not believe it possible that a pretty, young girl would sit down next to you."
"Don't play games. I know who you are, Grenada. Or, do you prefer your number, 3-7-1?"
