Epiphany on Market Street

Great grey monoliths lean against the sky like tombstones. There are living souls within captured and captivated. There are no outward signs of life. Just sheer stony faces reflecting one another.

Slumped on the pavement below on the corner of Market Street, grimy and grim, our hero sits. Cross-legged and downtrodden. Dirty tee-shirt, soiled trousers, blackened feet. No shoes and no socks. Thick matted hair and beard. Call that a beard? Merely, untamed facial growth. His head hangs. His demeanour is one of shame and boredom. He props up a makeshift sign made from a dismembered cardboard box. Scrawled by his scrawny hand in tomato ketchup, "Homeless please help".

He sits amongst his paltry possessions like a diseased bird in a remnant nest. A hole-riddled blanket coils around him. A dirty jumper lumped by his side with one arm sticking out as if it’s trying to crawl away from this disgrace. A crumpled cloth cap lies in front of him for collecting coins. On his right side there sits an asphyxiation of plastic bags. An archive of newspapers, bottles, string and various other discards pokes out from the bags at all angles. Litter and scraps picked up in passing or gathered from gutters and rescued from rubbish bins. Things of no use to anyone but him.

People hurry past with nary a glance at this wretched, fractured being. Human? Barely. With head turned, lowered or raised, they choose to ignore him because they are embarrassed. You can sense the wish that he should be removed; him and his like. No gaze falls directly upon him. They don’t completely deny he exists but they rush by all the same. A sad case of out of sight, out of mind.

Every so often, someone drops a coin into his cap. Why do they do that? Is it the pity? The guilt? Is it because they can’t be bothered carrying loose change? Do they really think he’s going to spend it on food? On bettering himself? Find himself a room for the night with a hot shower and clean sheets? There’s only one thing that keeps him going. There’s the evidence – a deflated, contorted silver bladder, sucked dry by ever thirsting lips.

He has left this place – the place we call the real world. His headspace has found a little nook of its own, tucked away, out of reach. Certainly, there was a time when he was a real human being. He had a job, a home and a family. Why, back then, he even had a name. If you ask him his name he won’t hear your words. Your words will make as much sense as the roar of the traffic and the honking horns.

He has left all these things behind; job, house, family and name. One by one they peeled away like the skins of an onion. He is drowning in a sea of nothingness. Maybe all his senses are failing. Maybe he can’t see in colour any more. He’s eating tomato ketchup straight from the bottle so surely he has no sense of taste. Smell? He stinks. Can he no longer smell even his own filth? Touch? He touches nothing and nothing touches him.

Anyway, there he sits, a broken work of art; a grotesque, squalid statue; a sunken island of tranquillity amongst the turmoil. His breaths are shallow. He no longer sighs with the forlorn thought of what he has forsaken.

The morning itself is a hot, ill-mannered affair. The heat hovers, clinging to the sheer sides of the office buildings. It scrapes away weak birds, the young, the old and the diseased, flinging them to the concrete and asphalt below. On the unforgiving surface of the street, the flimsy carcasses are trampled underfoot or underwheel.

It is just after ten o’clock. Not that it matters to him. There is no time, as such. Just early and late; light and dark.

He gazes at the speeding shoes and thatchwork of legs, mesmerised, until he hears a sound. Something has landed in his blanket. It didn’t chink or clink or make any sort of metallic sound. Sometimes people throw him half-eaten burgers and sandwiches. Without moving his head his eye peers into his bundle. He sees feathers. Somebody has thrown a dead bird in there. Maybe it fell. He slowly ponders what to do. The feathers stir. There is a wispy squeak. It is alive still. It tries to get upright when he notices that it is a nestling. Must have fallen from the ledges above him. He watches it struggle. Is it injured? It moves its little wings in a futile attempt to escape.

He turns and tilts his head to get a proper look. He stares at the fragile featheriness for a while. He cocks his head one way and then, moments later, he cocks it the other way.

After a few minutes’ observation, he reaches over to his right and rummages through one of the bags. He digs out a dried bit of bread. He breaks off a piece, puts it in his mouth and slowly chews it. He takes out the masticated mess and offers it to the bird. The bird just squeaks. It doesn’t know what to do. It’s used to its mother pouring mashed insect down its gullet. Undeterred our hero pokes the food into its little beak.

But what has happened here? Our hero is interested in the bird. The helpless creature’s cries stir a fragment of memory lost in the besmirched quagmire of his mind. He knows it must be fed yet he has forgotten to feed himself. He knows it needs caring for but cares nothing for himself. He reaches over and picks up the few coins from his cap. He gathers up his bundle of belongings and carefully cradles the bird in his tatty old jumper. Then, portentously, he stands. With his cloth bundle in one hand he slowly threads the handles of his plastic bags through the other. He is ready to move.

He tramps down Market Street looking in bins. After a while he finds a discarded milk carton. He shakes it. From the slopping sounds he knows there are still a few drops left. He finds a doorway and sets down his cargo. He drips a couple of drops of milk onto another bit of dried bread and gently squeezes the birds little head to open its beak. He pokes the milky bread into the gullet. The bird swallows and gives a shrill cry.

He is bemused by the fact that his plan worked. His begrimed face brightens and his bloodshot eyes whiten. He rises again and, laden once more, wanders off in search of food for the bird. Scavenging through bins, he picks up food scraps and puts them in his bags.

The day marches on through lunchtime and rush hour. Finally, the city’s cavernous streets begin to fill with shadow. He huddles into his favourite nightspot with his precious companion. The squeals have become louder with each milky meal. He snuggles up amid the glare of street lighting, keeping a slowly closing eye on the bird.

During the night he is visited by other denizens of the dark. They come to see who has supplies. A bottle is worth battling for; a cask can cause a fight. Sometimes they’re lucky; sometimes they’re not. It’s the way of the world. This evening, he has nothing for them. Guttural sounds pass between them and the visitors shamble off.

Hero keeps the bird hidden from all the uninvited visitors. If they see it they will want it. Try to take it from him because they are jealous of any possession. Share it or smash it. Give it or get it.

They won’t understand. It is a bird not a belonging.

As the night wears on, the bird chirps its little cries. It doesn’t sound happy. He wonders if it is still hungry. Maybe bread isn’t enough. Maybe it would prefer insects. He chuckles to himself. He has another plan.

He sits in the doorway watching and waiting for insects. Cockroaches scuttle across the steps. He lunges but they are too quick. Gone, in an instant, scurrying into their nooks. Bloated flies float around above his head. He’s not used to looking up so he overbalances and stumbles, holding onto the wall to steady himself.

Moths are the easiest. They are attracted by the neon light of the shop window. They batter against the glass, mad mindless little mites. Hero squints to focus. He is lining one up. Cunningly, he closes in. Hands drawn together to pounce on the fluttering prey. He strikes, pinning the moth against the glass. He can feel its wings whirring away. He brings his hands together to becalm his captive.

He gathers it up into one hand. He thrusts it into his own mouth and chews rapidly, crunching the moth. He mixes it with his saliva and then spits and dribbles its mashed remains onto his palm. He reaches into one of his bags. He pokes around and soon brings out a straw. He chuckles and mumbles happily to himself.

Using the straw, he sucks up the moth soup. He holds his finger over the top end of the straw. He carefully works the straw into the bird’s beak. He removes his finger allowing the minced moth to drop down its throat.

The little bird gulps greedily. It hungers for more. It stretches its little neck, squawking in an urgent, demanding fashion. Flapping its puerile wings, the bird raises itself to its full height. Its tiny avian muscles are fully extended. It squeals in excitement, a blob of goo caught on the underside of its small yellow beak.

Hero feeds it the rest of the mash. He is spurred on by the bird’s animation. More moths are needed. One by one, he captures them. He takes great care in preparing his charge’s meal. It’s a balance between the mashing of the moth and the saliva content. The bird gobbles it all down, its hunger unabated.

With straw inserted in its mouth, he watches the bird gulping away. His lips move back to reveal his stained teeth. He’s smiling but he could be snarling. Quite a while since the last smile.
After five moths, the bird’s squawks have softened. Hero nestles into the corner of the doorway, huddling the little bird to his breast. He begins to talk to it with soothing baby words. Gently, he strokes its little head and wipes the goo from its beak. The bird’s sounds soften further to a tired chirp.

That smile persists across the tarnished teeth. He closes his eyes wearing a look of serenity. In its crude cloth nest, the little bird quietens. Its eyes also close. The neon lights keep away the full weight of the night. The shadows shimmer with the buzz of electricity.

It is early morning. The roar of the first delivery truck wakens Hero. The dawn light draws feeble fingers along the dormant street. The shadows begin to retreat into the walls. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. Looks down on the little bird. It is lying, fallen in its nest. Scared little squeaks escape its beak.

He draws a stunned breath. The bird is unwell. Maybe moths were a bad idea. Might have been too many. The smile has left his lips. A frown furrows his brow.

He gets up and steps onto the footpath, looking up and down the street. He mutters in agitation. Two steps one way, four steps the other. He puts his hands on his head, urging his brain to tell him what to do.

Suddenly, he stops. He returns to the doorway and gathers up his things. Lastly, he picks up the bird, lying sick in its nest. He strokes its head, muttering away. Coochy-coo, he mumbles, coochy-coo.

He hurries up the light-starved street. Not quite a run but more than a shamble. He halts briefly at the corner of Market Street to get his bearings. Then he lumbers off, ignoring traffic lights in his urgency. His legs carrying him as fast as they can. Across the street he goes and around the corner. Up the steps to the big wooden doors of the church. With a shaking hand, he pushes against them. They remain steadfast. He knocks politely. The unwelcoming wood absorbs the dull raps.

He makes his way around the side. But all the doors are shut and unresponsive to his knockings. His brow creases. He steps back from the building and looks up at its majestic spires. Looking for an answer, a sign that he has been heard. He sees no God in the sky but he does see early birds taking to the wing. Swooping and singing through the stupefied air.

Soon his head is spinning from looking up. So, he looks down at his stricken charge. The poor thing is oblivious to its fellows’ songs. Can he not hear the wake up call? He shakes his head again. Come on, brain, what now? He returns to the main doors and leans his shoulder against them. He mutters some more oblique words, prayers maybe. Then, slowly he slides down to a sitting position. A tear trickles down his dirty cheek.

The spotlight that illuminates the holy building at night winks off. The church slumps into a grainy greyness. The birds continue to chase one another around its craggy heights, casting their calls upon the cool air. Grumpy buses rumble by. Purposeful people pass by absorbed in their early morning assignments. No one notices him. He holds the bird up to his ear hoping to hear it speak. He places a soft kiss on its head, brushing its grimy feathers with his weathered lips.

He clutches the bird to his heart. He closes his eyes, raises his face to the heavens and offers up some of his obscure sentences.

As the colour returns to the sky, as the hungry birds sweep and swoop between the buildings, as the traffic thickens in the city thoroughfares a beautiful thing happens.

With no forewarning the huge boards of the doors creak open. Hero shrinks back with another stunned drawn breath. And there, filling the opening between the great doors, like a huge black tree, is a priest who becomes startled by the sight befalling him. Another lost soul desecrating the sacred steps. His lips are parted but words fail him.

Hero, too, is startled. His lips stop their little mutterings. His eyes glare at the massive blackness standing in the shadow of the doorway. The priest and the tramp are locked together for that devastating split second. A huge silence wedges itself between them and the noises of the street.

Hero looks up eyes agog. The smile creeps across his face. The priest forces a grimace upon his face and clears his throat preparing to defend his position. But again words fail the holy man. Because now, on bended knees and with shaking cupped hands, our hero offers up the bird to the priest. Another huge slice of silence blocks out all other sounds. With tears trickling down his quivering cheeks and puny sounds playing on his lips, Hero says, "Help!"