The New Guy.

 The New Guy.

A new guy has taken up residence in our street these last few months. He’s also in the drinking game. He sits in the small square near the library. I pass him each day on my way to the newsagents. He drinks beer from cans and lines up the empties as if it’s some kind of competition, and he’s counting. 

His clothes are clean but ruffled. His face is tanned; he could be a teacher or even a writer; each time I see him, he gets older. 

Now and then, a woman sits beside him; she looks like the social worker type. Usually, she’s talking while he stares into the distance, drinking. 

Once, I saw her give him a packed sandwich from the local bakery; when I returned, she was gone, and the sandwich lay untouched on the bench next to him, the following morning, birds were fighting over it.

The High and Low Street.

 Our street. #1

Sitting on a bench across the street from where his local Bar used to be before its recent closure, the place where he used to be 'first in' and 'last out'. In the Bar, he felt at home. There he was somebody. He got to talk to people - at least before the alcohol kicked in. In the Bar, people would get worried about him if he didn't show up for a day or two. He was part of the colourful fauna of folk there, part of the family, and then it closed.

The locals have long since found other places to sit, drink and argue about the world and what it all means. He remains on the bench across the street as if he still believes it will return, the time when he was part of something. Now he sits here and drinks from a can (more are in the bag). People pass him by, nobody stops to talk, and the Bar becomes a distant memory; one day, he won't be around and fade as if he hadn't existed.