CoffeeShop Blues
changes of clothes and quietly made my way back out onto the
London streets and into the wet night.
The truth was I had no friends or nowhere to stay and I was pretty
broke. I knew no-one else in London, well, that was not entirely true.
I dialed Fedor. Fedor was a man who may or may not have been
homeless. I knew he drank, wrote poetry and I also knew his
telephone number. I called him.
I explained the situation to Fedor and then asked the pertinent
question.
“So, umm, whereabouts do you ahh, stay?”
“Well I am in a state housing apartment”. Wait, he wasn’t
homeless? Hope sprung from its eternal well.
“Would it be possible for me to stay with you? Not for long.
maybe a day or two?”
“Yes, O.K. I don’t have much. I live in a state housing
apartment”.
“Oh anything is great. Anything. Thank you so much”.
I was overjoyed. I jumped on the train and headed his way. Here
he was, an almost complete stranger, almost homeless, who at the
drop of his scrungy hat, was going to let me crash at his place. I was
elated by the generosity of his spirit and swiftly made my way
through the oppressively wet night with a heavy but grateful heart.
It was a sad day, but I had a roof over my head and so it wouldn’t at
least be a sad wet night. I felt comforted.
The state housing complexes rise up like soulless fortresses; plain
brick facades upon plain brick facades. There was a call box type
entry system that looked like it had been made by the same company
that manufactures those phone systems in prison. It probably was.
There was something of a penitentiary about the whole thing, a
prison of poverty if you will. But at least this was free housing.
People with little means had a solid structure and roof over their
heads. That's a good society.
Fedor buzzed me up. He was moping and melancholic but
very hospitable. He showed me a room with a large patent-leather
chair, with an old, synthetic covering scabby and picked at. The
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