Tramp

Prologue
There he sat. A Tramp to the eye, with undeterminably aged thread hanging off a sunken body older than its years, as if weighted down by the sorrow and guilt of a life designed by squandered opportunity. A picture from a period piece. His dull blue eyes shifted to gaze along the path at the human traffic, his scruffy patchwork beard tangled and matted like used brillo. It was his favourite part of the day, waking to the nip of cold air which shocked his lungs into conscious action then proceeding to take in humanity with all its splendid nuance. That he had fallen to the bottom of the totem pole did not matter to him in these moments, he soaked in societal dexterity and fictionalised the lives of passers-by. Well to do money men and lawyer ladies rolled eyes and walked on, proceeding to rid themselves of the memory of him in an instant. It had been hard at first, giving up; looks never before looked in his direction in happier times had become the order of the day, part and parcel of this partially chosen path. He was happy for them, despite the looks of disgust and disassociation, they were taking their shot. “Good on you”, he would say to himself, “I had mine and I blew it” He knew this, all because he couldn’t be a man, mistaking the giving of material things at any cost for happiness, even though this lie was boldly evident at the time of perpetration. He had lied to himself and worse still he did not manage his business, the business of his very family and self. Perhaps, this was due to lack of education? But this too he knew was a consequence of his own action, the opportunity was there, same as for all the rest, he CHOSE to squander it and integrity denotes that such blame must never be offloaded, no matter how tempting.
A slender Asian woman walked by, dark with rich summer skin, round full eyes, wide nosed and with a robust pout, tall fashionable and fast walking…confident...A feeling of pure love consumed him; This dense emotion, time could not waver,
He sighed
His love.

Perspective – The inside looking out.
“That’s a bit sharp” Thought CJ as pulled in his first conscious lungful, on a cold and frosty morning, the breath sharp and physical as if there were pins attached to it. At first glance there was a touch of spirit in the air, the breaching sunlight dancing to distortion, on an indecisive breeze, a welcome eye opening. A fine start as always, before society awoke with its quandary of rules, regulations and of times devoid of polite salutations.
Hopscotch, was sleeping soundly, his straggly clumped up and matted locks flavoured with the stench of the town in which she slept so soundly. “time for a bath” he thought, “he’s no fussed but, if one can avoid kipping with a stinking hound, one should, whenever possible of course”
Named Hopscotch after a pal from the old days who also chased the ladies and pumped indiscriminately, Hop would have his lipstick out before that bitches scent turned the corner. He was a semi decrepit mongrel of ill repute with deep, sauceresque hazelnut eyes and a coat of matted technicolour. He’d been with CJ for sever years, found abandoned at the side of the road next to a hastily developed fly tip. Unwanted and unloved, (he knew the feeling) but deeper and sadder still, her comprehensive quiver portrayed the characteristics of the “neverloved” which, for a soul with no greater will nor instinct but to love and be loved, seemed too woeful a fate to allow bearing. Slow friends they became, trading in ill intended growls for vivacious wags and perceived doggy smiles. Slow friends but firm. He had a nose for trouble and a fearsome growl to snuff it out in the majority, a beloved companion who could love and hate with utter devotion in a single moment, one of those you might convince yourself you can’t live without… You can of course, you’d rather not of but you always can, this he knew well enough.
“Aye he’s no bad, I’d never have got him in the house” he chuckled, as he watched him, content in the final moments of slumber, on a cold and frosty morning.
I tried
“I tried, but I bit of more than I could chew and here I now sit, at the mercy of you, the good and generous folk of this torturously talented town”
He sat. As was his want, contented to stillness and apparent dumbness, unless invited in to converse. Pondered mostly, that’s what he did, delighting in the comings and goings of the day, “There is infinite beauty” thought this vagabond, as he took in the technically astute and generously historic architecture in his sight line.
“GET A JOB YOU STINKING ALKY CUNT! LOOK AT THE STATE OF THAT MUTT! THING NEEDS PUT DOWN BEFORE IT GIVES SOME POOR FUCKER RABIES!”
CJ consulted his watch… 6.30 it told him “Been a while since we’ve had a pre-crack o dawn calamity Hop” he thought as he tried to locate the source of this potent aggression. Then right on cue, ears pricked, posture stiffened and to the situation, senses did attune, looking at only CJ. to whom she would react, he knew that they, and they alone, nothing from outside would dictate their karma, no matter how tempting the bait.
“DID YOU HEAR ME!?” half yelped the disgruntled; 5 feet 12 o’clock.
CJ shut his eyes and sucked in a long deep breath of prickly air through to the back of his chest. He let it out, opened his still wary eyes and took stock of the young “Gentleman” stood before him. Tall’ish, probably 5’11(tells folk he’s 6ft)Wiry(footballer) Hugo Polo, black on black. A wobble in the stance, with a half cut sway that could be mistook for an attempt at a dance.
“I was something of this once and could be still” he thought.
CJ pulled in the breeze and spoke from the chest in something akin to the tone of his youth.
“I did hear you yes! However, I’d bring your attention to the fact that it is 6.30am son and I’m not as spry in the morning as I once was, a combination of age and a steady diet of sausage rolls is my guess. Not to mention the still sleeping buttocks from the makeshift bed of concrete slab. Add to that, you’re not exactly a welcoming sight on a piggie numbing Monday morning! Where did you pick up those maleficent manners? Definitely no your maw, I’d bet my savings on it, probably slap the granny off you for such diatribe! Anyway…lets forget all that, put it behind us, it’s a new day after all, full of promise and endless permutations, potentials and possibility. Well…for me at least, it’s the scratcher for you by your look! What was it? A night at the raves? A disco? A dance? Then off you trot, to continue the party, in pursuit of a hairy that tickled yer fancy?
The “Gentelman” stood slack jawed, A ‘little more than quite unsure of how to respond.
“Looks like you’ve had a long night young man” CJ continued.
“A little green around the gills to my eye and I don’t miss much, drawn out days watching the act of the town folk will empower you as such. But why all of the aggression? It can’t be something I have done? Perhaps the homeless community as a whole? Aye that’ll be it, we do tend to have a bit of a reputation, as stinking piles of wasted humanity sleeping it rough, nobodies’ fault but our own, a lifetime spent accumulating the consequences of wrong doing and now our just dues, doomed to live out our days in squalor with the callous cold our constant companion. Can’t judge a young man too vociferously for such an assumption. You might be half right there fella but never forget, that also makes you half wrong…Tell you what, Let’s have a cup of tea and a chin wag. Your treat of course, as I’m sure you have noticed, I am skint, and your trainers cost more than my house. The cheapest therapy you’ll ever receive guaranteed! Though I will remind you that, ‘You get what you pay for!” and, in this case you are paying a tramp with a cup of tea. In return you with receive an open ear, with the inevitable consequence of received riposte’ that you may no want tae hear. I promise you this, if you will accept this deal I have laid out before you that, the words spoken will be with the intent of the continued construction of yourself and certainly not seeded with intent to detriment…On my honour! Now young man, what say you!?”
The youth’s portrait contorted with maelstrom of twitches, the anti-poker face giving the impression of someone asked the meaning of life on the back end of a feast of lemons.
The young man vomited…Thankfully CJ noted, on his own Samba super suedes “That’s them fucked” He thought…what a waste. The youth wandered off to sleep it off, no doubt none the wiser on wakening of this dawn altercation.
Fear permeates through porous bones, before `settling in his belly like a squatting sloth;
“close one that”