Puddle Soup

Water droplets hitched a ride over the edge of the sloped roof of the nook Adam was sleeping under. His socks were soaked through. He was jolted awake by drunken larrikins throwing hot chips at him and laughing on their way past, “Luxury for him, like a seagull,” chuckled the tall one. Adam had to decide whether he would be warmer with his only pair of socks, now wet, on or off. He decided off. He pulled his feet under his Lion King themed, child-sized sleeping bag, his shoulders now protruding.

Between shivering, discomfort and trying to remember to pull his feet closer, he caught nearly a moment of sleep. He flew to alert as something banged hard against his foot which had defied his command and was poking out of his bag.

“I’m a fucking human being,” raged eyes looked up to find a woman had tumbled over, propelled by his foot, the one too many things carried now scattered across the wet pavement.

“I’m super sorry mate, I was holding the umbrella down to shield the rain and didn’t see you.”

Inhaling her patchouli and vanilla perfume softened him, he pulled his aching limbs to attention to help her gather her soggy items. He felt comfort when she didn’t flinch or snatch her phone out of his hands like he was covered in leprosy as he passed it to her.

“Thanks, let me grab ya a coffee for trippin’ over ya so rudely. How do ya take it?” He stared at her for one moment too long, “You do drink coffee don’t ya? Just assumed.”

“I do, but it’s not necessary.”

“Flat white then?” She smiled, showing her dimples and the glow of her braces.

“Latte please,”

“Great, be back soon.”

Adam unzipped his worn, stained duffle, the zip getting stuck twice. He pulled out a small black notebook and pen, placing it on the ground next to him before rolling up his sleeping bag and putting it in the bag. The rough pattern on the outside of the notebook felt familiar and he opened it to his previous entry. Directly following his previous full stop he wrote ‘49’ careful not to waste any of his previous page. He started writing.

He again inhaled the scent of the young lady’s perfume, in the same moment she had sat down next to him, put his coffee between them and started fidgeting, looking for something in her bag.

“What ya writing?”

“Thank you for the coffee,” he sipped and the addictive bitterness dancing on his tongue.

She raised a cigarette to her mouth, still searching for a lighter.

“Want one?” She asked muffled trying to hold the cigarette in place with her lips.

“I don’t smoke, that shit will kill you.”

Her surprised expression met with Adam’s warm hazel eyes.

“Swap sides with me would ya? So the wind doesn’t blow the smoke in ya face.”

“Why do you smoke?”

“Life’s stressful, my work’s stressful,” she looked sheepish when she said her sentence out loud. Adam read her expression.

“My life’s a little more scary than stressful,”

“How’ ya end up on the streets? What bout your parents?”

Adam fell silent, retreating to an image of his Mum overdosing on heroin on his eighteenth birthday, Happy 18th son he thought, he was so mad and sick of it he didn’t bother calling an ambulance, nothing ever changed.

“It’s okay ya don’t have to say, how long have ya been out here?”

“49 days,” he threw out of his mouth like it stung to enunciate the words.

“What ya writing?” She drew in another breath of her durry.

“About my forty-nine days, if I end up dead, at least someone will know why. Even if they don’t care.”

She looked down, throwing the butt of the smoke to the floor and rubbing the heel of her shoe over it a few times.

“I better go, last thing I need is to be late. I’m April by the way.”

“Adam.”

***

The city was much quieter on a Monday. The silence was scarier, noise meant people. He doubted they’d help him if anything happened, but at least they’d bare witness. He sat in the corner of his stoop, drinking his chicken soup. A loud rev sounded, a precursor to the screaming passing of a green motorbike, breaking the silence and leaving the smell of burning rubber. Adam stood up to take his soup to the side street to finish it away from the stench. A police car sped past presumably chasing the bike, it hit the puddle on the side of the road splashing foul water over Adam and into his soup. Water trickled down his face. How the hell would he get dry now? He packed up his bag to take it with him and walked past three sets of lights crossing the road to avoid the drug addicts to get to a McDonald's restaurant. Everyone eating turned and looked at him, quickly looking away pretending they didn’t see him in the first place. He walked to the restrooms and took his shirt off holding it under the dryer. An overdressed woman sporting too much makeup strutted to the counter demanding to speak to the manager.

Adam had only dried three small patches on his shirt before the door opened revealing a security guard who was towering over him.

“Excuse me, sir, I need you to purchase something or leave the restaurant.”

“I only have fifty-five cents. Can I buy something for fifty-five cents?”

The guard rolled his eyes at Adam. Adam walked past the counter on his way out, the woman glaring at him and the staff pretending not to see him. He placed his fifty-five cents in the charity box. “Seen as you all did such fine work. I will support your charity to help people in need. It’s good to help them.” The manager looked down at his hands, embarrassed. Nobody spoke to him, he was back to being the invisible man, a problem everyone wanted to disappear. The guard put his hand firmly on Adam's shoulder guiding him out the door and onto the street. Wind bit Adams legs and feet, pushing its way through his wet pants. He walked back to his stoop. He stripped down to his jocks and lay his pants and shirt on the steps next to him before climbing into his sleeping bag, his bare shoulders exposed.

***

“Where’s ya shirt?” April’s quizzical tone woke Adam from his half-sleep. He looked next to him spotting empty steps. He pointed to the step and rose, his eyes filled with desperation as they met her warm gaze.

“Shit mate. Here, I got ya a coffee.” She handed it to him, he didn’t say anything, “I’ll go by the Salvo’s at lunch and grab ya a top and pants.”

“Thank you,” he hated accepting help, but he really had no other choice. In the normal way of things, he’d be buying April coffee just to see the sparkle of her braces when she smiled.

It was a slow morning, Adam sipped his coffee hoping it’d last, it was cold and disgusting but it’s all he had. He sat with the sleeping bag unzipped pulled around his shoulders like a poncho. He held his sleeping bag tight with one hand and his little black book in the other. ‘Day 50’ he wrote. He was deep in a writing trance blocking the foot traffic and people going about their day. A pair of shoes stopped in front of him, good quality shoes, he could tell real leather, he looked up. A well-dressed man in an expensive blue suit smiled at him. He came to know when people smile at you they want something out here. You’re either invisible, wanted or pitied.

“Hey, I’ve noticed you’ve been here a while,” the man continued forcing his smile into place.

“I’m not in anyone’s way here, sir.”

“You were clothed yesterday,”

“Yes.”

The man ran his eyes over the exposed skin Adam couldn’t hide with his sleeping bag. Adam gripped it tighter.

“You don’t like the shelters?”

“No sir, I don’t feel safe.”

“I know a place you could go,”

Adam knew people don’t offer kindness for nothing, he was sure even his acquaintance with April was pity.

“What sort of place?”

“A good sort, you’d have to, work, for your keep of course but you’d be looked after.” He looked down at Adam’s chest. Adam steamed with anger.

“NO. NO!, I’m not interested. Please leave or I’ll call…”

“…Call who? On what young man?” The man smirked and left, not in a hurry.

Adam wanted to find another spot to stay. What was the point though? A different spot, a different set of weirdos and people treating him like crap, and no more April.

He was so relieved to see April, “here I’ll hold ya sleeping bag up, you get dressed behind it.”

“You’ll never guess what happened to me,” he told her. She looked down at her watch, “Shoot, I gotta get back to work.”

Adam stood up, every fibre of his muscles aching. He walked to the public bathroom. He splashed water on his face and under his arms. He looked into his own eyes, day by day the person in the mirror becoming less familiar.

He got back to his spot and sat down. He riffled through his things for his book. He couldn’t find it. He shook the contents out of his bag. His only loved possession. The only thing he needs, writing to Adam was like oxygen and the only thing keeping him sane.

***

There must be an event on, Adam didn’t understand why there was so much traffic on a weeknight. He liked the smell of fumes, it meant people were around, people would see him. He is accounted for, he can’t fall through the cracks. He is here. Invisible but visible.

The man in the suit stopped by again, Adam stared at him, the man placed some hot food on the step with a business card showing an address. “Did you steal my book?” The man smirked again, raising his eyebrows and continuing to walk down the street.

***

April dropped Adam’s morning latte off jolting him awake.

“Thank you,” he sat up by April’s side as she lit up her morning durry.

She realised she was sitting on something and shuffled across the step, “Oh ya book, where did ya find it?” Adam looked at the book like it was a block of gold. He teared up and held his hand out, she passed it to him.

April and Adam managed to get into a somewhat unusual routine for a few weeks. She dropped him off coffee usually waking him up, he enjoyed the company, hated the smoking but loved the coffee.

***

Adam felt something land on him. He took a minute to open his eyes. When he did, he found a shoebox on his chest. He looked around, no one. How mysterious, he thought. He lifted the lid, there was a huge wad of $100.00 bills in it, his mouth dropping open. He looked around again, still no one in sight. He pulled out a piece of paper at the back of the box behind all the money. He started reading, ‘Congratulations, you are the winner of the Vocal Little Black Book Competition, you have won…’ The smell of patchouli and vanilla pulled his face away from the letter.

“You did this?”

“I did, well we did. You did the writing I entered it in the competition,” She passed him a coffee and sat down for her smoke.

“After ya coffee pack up ya things, my brother has a spare room and is looking for a roommate, you’re now a working writer,”

“April?”

“Yeh?”

“Can I buy you a coffee tomorrow?”

“Well yeh, you owe me like twenty of them.”