You can choose to ignore people on the street who approach you to buy things, you can buy from them or you can talk with them. The conversation below took ten minutes and remained with me so clearly that I could write it almost word for word. It was moving and memorable.
Sunday morning, October 14th and I’m sitting in the market square drinking a cup of coffee, killing time. Six pairs of sports socks, some cosmetics in my shopping bag and an Ipod I’ve bought for someone as a present. I hear the sound of someone trying to sell something to the people next to me.
‘Look, I’m not begging, I’m homeless, I live on the streets. I’m trying to sell something’.
The two women next to me don’t speak, shake their heads. He persists and they eventually say: ‘No’.
He moves past them, looks into my face and I see his face. At first glance it looks like an open face, tanned; he has a wide eyed charm. I notice that some of his teeth are missing.
‘I’m not begging’ he says. I look at him and he looks at me. He says:
‘You look like a nice person’.
I laugh and say: ‘I am’
‘Are you a teacher?’ My dad was a teacher’
’No, I say.’ ‘I work for a software company’.
‘God’ he says.
‘It’s OK I say’.
He says ’It’s really hard you know, I’ve just come out of prison, I was in for a long time, came out in, (he starts to calculate: January, February, March, then gives up). ‘Noone wants to know.’
‘I bet someone wants to know’.
‘Oh yeah, the Salvation Army, the Homeless Hostel’. I can’t stand authority you know, I’d rather be on my own doing this, selling these sticks, can’t sign on, can’t sell the Big Issue. I was done for fraud, nothing bad.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Something environmental, out in the open, with trees. I know a lot about wild things, I’m a gypsy. Nettle soup. I’m not a vegetarian, you need some bacon and some onions. It’s lovely. But sometimes I get it wrong and you can poison yourself you know. I’m full of poison.’
‘Bloody hell’ he continues ‘Your nails’ ( I wonder if they still have soil in them, glance at them and then back at him)
‘What?’
‘They’re so pointed, so sharp’
’Oh yes’, I concede, ‘they’re a bit old fashioned.’
‘Old fashioned? ‘I bet they give your boyfriend a thrill when you run them down his back.’
That’s a bit cheeky’.
‘Yes, I know but bloody hell, I’m sorry’.
‘It’s OK. I bet you if you went down to St Peter’s Church, they’re really good and spoke to them, someone would help you’.
‘No they wouldn’t, believe me, they’d just think I was going to spend it on drugs or alcohol. I’m on methadone, I’ve got a scrip’ ’Nothing is going to work for me, it’s too late. I think I might just kill myself. You’ll hear about me hanging off somewhere tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be daft’ I’m alarmed, his mood has changed.
He looks at me for a moment; to my eyes he seems shy, really shy but somehow really honest:
‘Look. I’ll show you something',
He’s gazing down and looks up at me. ‘Do you mind? I hurt myself, I self harm’. He pulls up his shirt. There are two gauze patches over his stomach and his torso is covered with small red scars.
‘People have been telling me to sort myself out since I was eleven, my dad…well, he can’t have been a teacher because we were gypsies. I started to sniff glue and then drugs but I’m not on drugs now, just have a drink and I have my scrip for methadone.’
‘It’s hard, I say ‘when you have to keep telling your story to strangers, you must forget who you are.’
‘I am a gypsy, not like those asylum seekers who come in to Dover and take all the houses’
‘Don’t be absurd’ I say. ‘Do you know how many empty council houses there are across the UK that aren’t fit to live in? Councils have often given houses to asylum seekers that noone else will take.’
‘I know. That was stupid. I didn’t mean that. That was bad.’
‘ Well I don’t think you’re on your last legs, I think you’re a survivor. I think you’ve done brilliantly to get this far.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘Of course I mean that’.
‘Do you know, that means more to me than all the money I could get for these sticks’.
‘Well, it’s true. Do you want some coffee?’
‘A little sip’.
‘ You can have it all , I’ve got to go and get my bus’.
‘Don’t go’.
‘No, I’ve got to go. Good bye’.
‘Good bye. Thankyou.
‘Look, I’m not begging, I’m homeless, I live on the streets. I’m trying to sell something’.
The two women next to me don’t speak, shake their heads. He persists and they eventually say: ‘No’.
He moves past them, looks into my face and I see his face. At first glance it looks like an open face, tanned; he has a wide eyed charm. I notice that some of his teeth are missing.
‘I’m not begging’ he says. I look at him and he looks at me. He says:
‘You look like a nice person’.
I laugh and say: ‘I am’
‘Are you a teacher?’ My dad was a teacher’
’No, I say.’ ‘I work for a software company’.
‘God’ he says.
‘It’s OK I say’.
He says ’It’s really hard you know, I’ve just come out of prison, I was in for a long time, came out in, (he starts to calculate: January, February, March, then gives up). ‘Noone wants to know.’
‘I bet someone wants to know’.
‘Oh yeah, the Salvation Army, the Homeless Hostel’. I can’t stand authority you know, I’d rather be on my own doing this, selling these sticks, can’t sign on, can’t sell the Big Issue. I was done for fraud, nothing bad.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Something environmental, out in the open, with trees. I know a lot about wild things, I’m a gypsy. Nettle soup. I’m not a vegetarian, you need some bacon and some onions. It’s lovely. But sometimes I get it wrong and you can poison yourself you know. I’m full of poison.’
‘Bloody hell’ he continues ‘Your nails’ ( I wonder if they still have soil in them, glance at them and then back at him)
‘What?’
‘They’re so pointed, so sharp’
’Oh yes’, I concede, ‘they’re a bit old fashioned.’
‘Old fashioned? ‘I bet they give your boyfriend a thrill when you run them down his back.’
That’s a bit cheeky’.
‘Yes, I know but bloody hell, I’m sorry’.
‘It’s OK. I bet you if you went down to St Peter’s Church, they’re really good and spoke to them, someone would help you’.
‘No they wouldn’t, believe me, they’d just think I was going to spend it on drugs or alcohol. I’m on methadone, I’ve got a scrip’ ’Nothing is going to work for me, it’s too late. I think I might just kill myself. You’ll hear about me hanging off somewhere tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be daft’ I’m alarmed, his mood has changed.
He looks at me for a moment; to my eyes he seems shy, really shy but somehow really honest:
‘Look. I’ll show you something',
He’s gazing down and looks up at me. ‘Do you mind? I hurt myself, I self harm’. He pulls up his shirt. There are two gauze patches over his stomach and his torso is covered with small red scars.
‘People have been telling me to sort myself out since I was eleven, my dad…well, he can’t have been a teacher because we were gypsies. I started to sniff glue and then drugs but I’m not on drugs now, just have a drink and I have my scrip for methadone.’
‘It’s hard, I say ‘when you have to keep telling your story to strangers, you must forget who you are.’
‘I am a gypsy, not like those asylum seekers who come in to Dover and take all the houses’
‘Don’t be absurd’ I say. ‘Do you know how many empty council houses there are across the UK that aren’t fit to live in? Councils have often given houses to asylum seekers that noone else will take.’
‘I know. That was stupid. I didn’t mean that. That was bad.’
‘ Well I don’t think you’re on your last legs, I think you’re a survivor. I think you’ve done brilliantly to get this far.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘Of course I mean that’.
‘Do you know, that means more to me than all the money I could get for these sticks’.
‘Well, it’s true. Do you want some coffee?’
‘A little sip’.
‘ You can have it all , I’ve got to go and get my bus’.
‘Don’t go’.
‘No, I’ve got to go. Good bye’.
‘Good bye. Thankyou.
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