He smelled bad—how could he not, living rough on the streets? The pertinent word in that sentence being rough. He saw her nose twitch involuntarily; she must be making a big effort not to pull away. He wondered whether she had enough dealings with street people to identify the length of time they had been homeless? He could grade them now. Those who had spent months or even years on the street smelled of damp and feces, alcohol and vomit, dirt that had penetrated past clothes and skin and into souls. It was almost unbearable. Not because it was the worst smell in the world—decaying rats in the walls smelled worse, death smelled worse—the sensory assault is accepting that the smell is made by another human being. A fellow human being.
People who had been on the streets for days or weeks, rather than months, smelled different. It was still overpowering, but it was just stale sweat, greasy hair, maybe urine. Other people’s urine, often. Guys on their way home from trendy wine bars sometimes pissed on the homeless for sport. Toma knew this. It had happened to him.
“Thank you.” He took the tea, made eye contact. It was important. Back in the day when he had a home, a wife, a child, people had called him handsome. He knew his large brown eyes were considered intelligent, even sexy. He wasn’t trying to flirt with this woman. That was absurd. All that had gone. Those compulsions: desire, hope, fun. Now he existed, nothing more. And he existed to get justice. He made eye contact with this woman because maybe she could help, and she was more likely to help if she could see that his eyes were not clouded with drugs or alcohol. She would judge him. This nice woman with a wet arse who gave him sweet tea. She would try not to, but it was instinctual. She would feel hopeful if the eye contact was good.
“I’m Lexi.”
“Toma Albu,” he replied. “My authentic name.” Few homeless people give a surname, and even first names are often made up. He wanted to show her he was different.
“So, were you waiting for me to open?” she asked. He shrugged, unwilling to expose himself by committing so immediately. He was scared to ask for help in case she wouldn’t give it to him. In case she couldn’t. This was his last hope. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what else he could do. Find a tall bridge over a deep river, perhaps. Because why not? What did he have to live for? “Have you any plans for today?”
He shook his head, tutted. She left him to drink his tea, went back inside and then, about five or ten minutes later, returned clutching some leaflets. “There’s a place you can go to get breakfast and a shower. It’s about a ten-minute walk. Here’s a map and the address, okay?” She was asking if he could read the leaflet. He nodded. “I’ll telephone them, tell them you are on your way. Come back here afterwards and we can talk through some options.” He slowly got to his feet, picked up his filthy, torn sleeping bag that was heavier than usual, bloated with rainwater. “I realize when I ask people in your position to come back to see me that there’s only a ten percent or less chance of them doing so,” said the woman.
“Then why risk it? Why not talk now?”
“We don’t open until nine thirty, and you’ll concentrate better if you’ve eaten something. Besides, I’ve worked with wilder odds. I’m secretly a bit of a gambler.” She smiled. He liked her. She was joking with him, appealing to him. Treating him as a human being.
Toma spent the morning in the hostel she had recommended. He ate the breakfast they offered and took the opportunity to launder his clothes. As he waited for his clothes to wash and dry, he showered and then—standing in a borrowed, baggy tracksuit that countless men before him must have worn—shaved. He imagined how easy it would be to use the razor to slit his wrists. He thought that maybe he’d come back to this place and do exactly that tomorrow if the woman didn’t listen to him. If someone didn’t listen to him.
He returned to the office just after midday. He looked through the glass door and saw that it was a very small place, the desks practically on top of one another. He no longer smelled so didn’t dread being close to people as he usually did, but there would be no privacy. He waited outside until she emerged. On spotting him, she said, “I can skip lunch if you want to come in.”
“You shouldn’t miss lunch. I’ll walk with you to get your lunch.”
She smiled again. She was definitely the sort who was fast to break into a beam. “Well, that’s a strange inversion of the usual order.”
“You mean a homeless man concerned that an office woman misses her lunch is comment-worthy?” He was suddenly irritated by her. Couldn’t she understand that he used to be someone responsible, thoughtful, caring? Couldn’t anyone imagine that?
She grinned. “I mean anyone being concerned with me missing lunch is an inversion of the usual order.” He thought she was too thin. He imagined she regularly worked through her lunch break because she seemed concerned, committed. His irritation subsided. Her boss ought not to let that happen; her husband should encourage her to look after herself, as well. There was a husband, she wore a ring. He had checked. He hoped she had children, too. It would help.
They walked to Boots, and she bought them each a sandwich, crisps and a drink.
