Arthur
by
Margaret Cracknell
Arthur decided to get off the bus at City Hall. He gathered up his possessions. First, the Sears shopping bag with his newspapers in it. He collected papers that other people left on the bus or under benches. Sometimes he was lucky and found a magazine someone had tossed in a trash can. He would read them all, but not in great detail. He'd read enough of them to enjoy the horrors, deceits and bad luck of people with money, cars, time-shares, cell phones and the Internet. These people have a lot of problems. It made him feel contented with his life. On the seat was his backpack. One strap was broken. He slung it over his shoulder and with his other hand he picked up the cloth bag that contained his blanket, a pair of socks, a sliver of soap, a rag of a towel and his toothbrush.
Generally the area in front of City Hall was empty. In winter, the wind swept across the space, whipping the snow into swirls with gusts that cut through you like a knife. Today people clustered in doorways or huddled around corners. They were waiting for Jordie Parkes, the newest star in the teenage firmament of rock music. The local boy that started singing in church choirs and his high school musicals and ended up with a Tony nomination, and now he had come home to be presented with civic honours, and the adoration of the city he hated, and couldn't wait to get away from.
Jordie Parkes, now a long-haired, slovenly idol dressed in white satin and black leather, hung about with heavy iron jewelry. How they loved him!
Arthur knew him well. His dad, Ted, had worked with Arthur, and they spent a lot of time together when Jordie was young. Jordie often came up in conversation. His mother and father were very proud of their young son's musical talent. Arthur wondered if they were still proud of him. They were a strict church-going family.
Something was happening. A crowd formed on the steps; cameramen and reporters pushed to the front, police held back the crowd. A long, white limousine drew up and out stepped Jordie Parkes.
The teenagers shouted, "I love you, Jordie," and Jordie blew them kisses and gave the thumbs up sign. The cameramen clustered around him, the crowd screamed and pushed and shoved to get closer to him, and then he was gone, through the glass doors to the mayor's office.
"So that's Jordie now," Arthur mused. "I wonder if he will go and see his Mum and Dad. Hurley Street isn't something you'd be proud to see yourself connected with, not in The Rolling Stones."
He shuffled down Main Street. He would go to St. Oswald's Church. They ran a daily soup kitchen. His hands were numb. He put down his bags on the sidewalk and rubbed his hands together until some feeling returned to his fingers. He picked up his bags and went on to the church.
It was crowded. They hadn't started serving yet. A line-up in front of the kitchen window stretched down the hall. Some people sat at the tables reserving a place for their group of buddies. This was their daily meeting place. It was warm in there. The air was warm. It smelt of cabbage, toast, coffee and toilets, but above all, it was warm.
Arthur would stay there until it closed and then he would make his way to a shopping center. He spent his nights in a bus shelter. He had taken two seat cushions from a settee that had been tossed out onto the grass after a fire. He kept the cushions in the shelter. Late night travellers were surprised to see him, but the shelter was beside the hospital, and most late passengers were hospital staff coming off duty. They all knew him and let him sleep.
This night the temperature dipped to 29 degrees below zero. The wind sighed around the shelter. It was difficult to get warm enough to sleep. Around midnight, an orderly from the hospital slipped out with a cup of coffee and a cinnamon bun for him.
He felt good. He felt respected and loved, and the coffee helped with the cold. "I wonder how Ted and Irene feel tonight. I bet Jordie never went to see them, damn him!"