Matthew

Matthew approached me on his feet at about 2:30 in the morning. His big eyes and boyish face tucked under a knit cap.

“Do you have anything to spare, sir? I was looking to get something to eat before all the shops closed.” I’m blown away by how young he looks.

“Yeah, come on,” and I motion for us to sit on the step of the HSBC bank. I reach into my bag,

“Would you like a cigarette?”

“Sure, thank you.”

“No problem. Everybody deserves a smoke.” And I hand him a pound saying, “Sorry, I’d give you a five so you could get something decent, but a long-legged German dancer in a thong took all my money. She’d tell you I gave it to her, but it sure feels a lot more like she took it.” He laughs, like I hoped he would. I’ll save that story for another time.

“What’s got you outdoors, Matthew?” I say, dragging deeply on my cigarette.

“Lost my job in February, been outdoors ever since.”

“And where are you going to sleep tonight?” He motions up the road,

“If I collect enough, there is a hostel I can stay at, or you know, somewhere out here.” I nod.

“I think you’ll do well. I talk to a lot of people, and most say it’s about the approach, and you’ve got a good approach, Matt. You look young and non-threatening. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-six.” I try not to cough out my surprise at him being four years my senior. He talks quietly and takes light drags on his cigarette.

“I want to ask you something, it’s kind of the reason I sat down with you.”

“Sure.”

“If you could say something to the people that walk past you every day, if you could get their attention what would you want to say?” He stares ahead at the empty road and few stragglers still chasing a good time.

“There’s a lot I’d want to say.” I nod.

“Yeah. But if you could pick one thing, what would you say? You can think about it.” He takes another small drag on his cigarette even though I think it’s out. It occurs to me that he might not even be a smoker.

“I’d tell them not to judge people on circumstance. I didn’t think I’d be here before February. It doesn’t make me something evil or dangerous because I’m on the street.” He stops. I think the conversation is pulling up some hurt that he’s kept buried. I expect him to keep talking, but he doesn’t. “That’s pretty much it.”

I give him another pound, and tell him I hope he makes enough to get a roof over his head.

I walk home the thirty minutes up Banbury Road feeling the two pounds and fifty-odd pence I have left heavy in my pocket. The guy under the bus-stop is asleep. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I lay down the last of my change in front of him, knowing I’ll have to exchange more currency in the morning.