Crenulation: A minute crenation – of a leaf or shell, as being round-toothed or having a scalloped edge
Rounder: One who comes about frequently or regularly
Excursionist: One who goes on an excursion or pleasure trip
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Over a scruffy, ripped shirt, red checks bleached pink, a beard hangs like a plume of grey smoke, a pile of ashes in which the veins of burnt leaves have tangled like wire wool. A mouth hides beneath the hairy crenulation, wise words waiting to pounce. Two small eyes watch the world like pebbles dropped in water, the ripples permanently etched on his face, as though at some point he’s been glued back together.
A cardboard sign leans against his crossed legs, the haggard jeans not fit for a scarecrow, yet thick enough to sleep in. They’re covered in a patchwork of colourful stains, comfy Dutch tulip fields. The yellow stain of a dogs urine; the flaky red of McDonald’s ketchup; the crisp maroon of blood. These are stains that imply character – a machine washable anthology of memories, blotchy runes.
On the sign he’s written:
Senseless Lamentations – 50p
Empty Platitudes – 100p
He caters for all types. He calls it ‘offering a service to the day-trippers’, those excursionists who only hit the boardwalk when the sun is out. A styrofoam cup nearby implies that neither offer has been well received today. Must be the weather. Besides, some of the coins have probably in there for weeks now. His only friends. Better than friends. Can’t spend friends on cigarettes.
Slumped in his archway, he acts as a way marker; once a human, now a sign post for those trying to find their way to the beach. A five-fingered constellation, daubed on the pavement like yesterday’s hopscotch. There’s a smell, always the same, that clings to him almost paternally, almost with form. It smells like spilt milk that’s gone bad in the heat. It cloaks him, aggressive as the sickly sweetness of burning rubber. He doesn’t notice it anymore, but it seems to keep the rats away.
A noise stirs him – sounds like the rounders are back again. The small coven of Romanian crones wander the boardwalk, squawking with empty hands outstretched, feeding invisible birds with invisible seed. Ignoring the rounder’s unintelligible babbling, he casts an eye over his styrofoam treasure chest, lazily like a sprawled dog eyeballing a chewed up toy.
Looking around, he sees a kid break away from holding his mother’s hand. A glacial calving in the mother-son dynamic. The kid seems embarrassed to have been spotted displaying weakness. The kid tugs his mother’s blouse, thin and splashed with leopard spots, and points at the man. She reprimands her son, rubs his hair, then acquiesces and reaches into her pocket.
He approaches tentatively, and drops two coins into the styrofoam cup. New friends, new cigarettes.
‘Why d’you sleep outside?’ Asks the kid curiously.
He grins – maybe – but the beard makes it hard to tell.
‘It’s way too hot to sleep inside this time of year.’
‘Oh,’ the boy looks confused for a moment, then laughs. Running back to his mother, the boy calls back ‘have a good day!’
‘Could be,’ he says, nodding. ‘Could be.’
Afterwards, he lies down on his cardboard mattress for the rest of the afternoon. Eventually the shadows of evening blossom and the furrows on his face ebb like waves on an ancient shore.
Stories On The Sofa 