Emma Oakes

Parallel Lives

Life had not been kind to Warren. He was not always sure where things had started to go wrong. He was 37, with a boyish frame, but looked older, his face sallow from years of alcohol abuse. His hair, once sandy, was starting to thin and turn grey, and hung limply around his pockmarked face. He had a taciturn disposition, which was not at all helpful for today’s activity, begging outside the train station. Other regulars tried to play on the sympathies of passers-by. “Spare any change, I’m trying to get enough for a bed tonight”, wishing good night to commuters who passed without a second look, trying to sell small drawings, using humor. Others took a more aggressive tact, approaching directly or boarding trains. He took neither, and sat silently in his usual spot, somewhat morose, waiting to see what came his way. He didn’t like to beg, and he wasn’t good at it. But his check was not due for another five days or so, and he could make $30 sitting here in a couple of hours on a good day, without too much effort.