A man sits alone in a café. His jacket sits dripping across the back of the chair next to him. The waitress is talking through the pass to the chef while the customer looks through the menu. He does this to pass the time a little. He knows what he wants. He always gets the same thing.
He glances out the window. The rain lashes across the street. The dull patter is muffled by the large windows and the wind howls under the light jazz playing in the café speakers. In the greying confusion of the deluge, the man sees a homeless figure crouched in the V-shaped struts of the overpass.
It's more of his orange sleeping bag that he sees. The man himself is leaning up against the concrete struts, seemingly asleep.
The customer watches the police approach, rain sliding off their black slickers.
They stand at the foot of the overpass and must be saying something to the homeless person, because they make no move to touch him. The homeless person sits up, rubbing his eyes. The customer watches the police talk to the man for a while. He can't hear what they are saying. They don't move much except the homeless man when he either shakes his head no or nods it yes.
Then, reluctantly, he slides out of the overpass and into the rain, the police standing aside to make room for him. He bundles his things in his arms. Talks with the police a moment more, gesturing back futility at the struts of the overpass. One policeman shakes his head. Then they move off, casting looks back at the homeless man who stands out in the street, holding his orange sleeping bag.
'What are we having then? The usual?'
The waitress stands by the customer's table. He's taken aback by what she's said, as if she said it in another language. Takes him a moment to mumble his assent.
He turns back to the window. The struts of the overpass remain where they are, bone dry, while the homeless man struggles up the street, sopping wet.
Paddy Dobson
22nd February 2022