Time For a Break

Rain pours down, hitting the open coffee cup and the three dollars resting at the bottom. Despite being tucked against the wall, the overhang above the closed Chinese shop doesn’t quite shield me. It doesn’t matter anyway—the wind howls, pushing sheets of rain sideways.

In front of me, a bus slides to a stop. The doors open and people pour out, heads down. Some already wrestling umbrellas open, some using briefcases, others holding onto their ties or blow-dried hair as they speed walk past me toward the train station on the right. I avoid eye contact but push the cup forward; it’s now half-filled with water.

The people pay me no attention.

Except for one.

A man who’s just stepped into a puddle near the curb swears, flicking his foot with disgust before glancing at me.

“Get a job like the rest of us, for Christ’s sake.”

My heart rate picks up.

“Fuck off.”

The words leave me without thinking. But when it’s your thirty-ninth birthday and you’re spending it outside on a cold, rainy day, alone, trying to scrape together enough money to eat, you tend to say things without thinking.

He whips around, briefcase swinging.

“Excuse me?”

I look up from beneath my red cap. “You heard me.”

He sneers, glancing toward the train station and back at me, probably checking whether he has time to bother with someone like me.

“I go to work every day, sit behind a desk for eight hours, then go home only to do it all over again. And you sit here” - he waves a hand at me - “on your ass all day, expecting people to give you their hard-earned money.”

My blunt nails carve half-moons into my palms. The urge to punch this man and his perfectly trimmed beard and gelled hair, is the first real feeling I’ve had besides the endless sadness that comes with living on the streets.

“You think I have it all? Rainbows and sunshine? You want to sit here in my place, then? If I’ve got it so great?”

My throat scratches, my voice unused to being heard. Somewhere, my inner voice hisses to stop. To stay silent. To be nobody.

Don’t pick a fight Tony, it whispers.

The man scoffs. “Stop feeling so sorry for yourself man. You lazy people just mope about, don’t you?”

He kicks the coffee cup over. Water spills, coins scatter. “Maybe stop wasting your money on coffee. How about that for a start? Maybe use it to get some proper clothes.”

I laugh, rubbing the back of my hand over my mouth. “With what money? You think there’s a suit for three bucks?”

“It’s called savings, you twit!”

Annoyance prickles through me. “My bad. Here I was using it for food and water. And yeah, maybe a fucking coffee.”

He’s still shaking his head. “Just go get a job, man.”

By now his own suit is drenched, but his hair remains perfectly shaped. Which pisses me off more. He stands above me, looking at me like the dirt beneath his shoes.

Yeah. We’re going to fix this.

I stand slowly, careful not to scare him off. This conversation isn’t finished.

Most people don’t realise how tall I am. Not when I’m huddled against the cold, back curved, braced against the rain. Not when my long legs are hugged to my chest.

“Would you hire me? I don’t have a permanent address or a car. But please—if it’s that easy to bag a job, fuck, I’ve been wasting my time.”

How many interviews have I done? How many support services have I tried to qualify for?

When I stand to my full height, I tower over him. He steps back slightly. I sneer.

“You alright, mate? You suddenly seem a little scared.”

It bruises his ego. His fingers turn white around the handle of his briefcase.

“Scared? Of a skeleton like you?” He glances toward the station “Whatever, man.”

He walks away.

I watch him go, imagining running after him—swinging my fist into the side of his head, watching him fall, his stupid suit smeared with mud. I imagine his fear. Maybe he’d cry. Maybe he’d say sorry.

“Hey!” I yell.

He turns.

“I used to be just like you.” I straighten my posture, like I’ve got a stick up my ass, adjust an imaginary collar. “Dressed like you. I hope one day everything comes crashing down. I hope you end up on the streets.”

I pick up my cup, pocket the coins.

“Maybe then you’ll realise how fast those dominoes fall.”

He stares at me for a moment. Then, without a word, turns and disappears into the train station, leaving me in the rain, alone, fists shaking.

I step forward, ready to chase after him. But then I force myself to turn away and walk to the supermarket a few blocks over.

When the doors slide open, I cringe at the muck I drag in. Clothes dripping. Shoes leaving muddy prints on the white illuminated floor.

“Closing in ten minutes, mate,” a bored teenager calls from behind the counter.

I nod, adjusting my cap, wandering the aisles. Nowadays, three dollars gets you a punnet of strawberries. Maybe a small bag of chips. Bright yellow tags scream SALE.

I picture the man’s face—the too-tight tie, the ironed suit. I picture my desk, how comfortable my chair was, the leather slowly shaped by my body over years of sitting. Of working.

I sigh and grab a discounted tuna sandwich - the expiration date today.

At the counter, as he takes my coins, I ask, “You hiring?”

The kid’s eyebrows lift, his eyes flicking over my clothes, my face.

“Uh. You can hand me your resume I’ll give it to my boss.”

I want to grab his ridiculous red polo and shout, does it look like I’ve got a resume tucked into my pocket?

But I don’t. Instead I click my tongue.

“Yeah, i don’t have my resume with me right now. I’ll come by next time with it”

He nods. I nod.

We both know it’s bullshit.

He hands me the sandwich. “Have a good night.”

The door dings behind me.

It’s eight o’clock. The rain has stopped. The city is quiet after rush hour. I walk street after street, deciding where to sleep. I pass other homeless people and drug addicts too fazed to notice me. I wonder how they ended up here.

One by one, shops close. Lights flick off until only street lamps and neon signs glow. I’m still itching to fight, too wired to curl up and sleep on concrete.

I picture my boss’s assistant, the way she pursed her lips before telling me I was let go. I remember being angry my boss didn’t have the decency to say it himself.

My fist had imprinted his face, just like my ass had imprinted my chair. I remember yelling. The sunny day outside the skyscraper windows. Light pouring in as I hit him again.

I remember getting into my car, not visiting my mother because I was too angry. Then getting the call that my sick mother had died the next day. I remember, the wave of hospitals, the cost of the funeral.

The way the guilt ate me, and the alcohol had comforted me.

A crack addict yells from across the road, waving, laughing.

I stare up at the skyscrapers, their windows sparkling in the fading light. I flip them off and duck into an alley, needing to get away, away from the sight of them.

One alley turns into another. Shiny buildings give way to abandoned ones.

I can’t help it, I kick over a rubbish can stationed on the side of the road. The force richoetes back up my shin. Fuckkk, I think I broke my toes. The bin must me bolted to the pavement.

“FUCK! FUCK EVERYBODY” I yell out.

“Shhhhh”

Someone says behind me. I turn. “What?!” I shout. “What the fuck is it?!”

It’s a spindly old woman sitting on the steps of a laundry matt. She rocks back and forth. I look at her for a long moment. I’m going to end up like her. Old and alone on the streets. The fear punches me hard in the gut. I cave forward, the pain coming again. I groan, falling to my knees. The pain sharp, hot. A shadow moves in front of me.

“Give me everything you have, or I’ll stab you again”

Again? Wha- I look down, my hands are covered in blood.

“Now!” The shadow shouts.

I laugh, as I feel my warm blood trickling down my stomach.

“I have nothing” I say, before tipping forward. Cheek pressed against the pavement. Sleep comes to me quickly then.