James

After hours James sets up shop under a Taylor’s Gourmet Deli awning on St. Giles with a suede black bag that may double as a hat at his feet.

He’s quiet as I approach, fresh from the pub, and I drop off from my group of friends to sit down with him and have a cigarette. He accepts it saying, “Never turn one down,” while digging into his pocket for a light.

He keeps his knees to his chest with long arms wrapped around them, perpetually huddled. His brown hair has a shag to it, but in the light from the lamppost I can still see its chestnut color. I started talking to him with some bullshit pseudo-accent that I have a hard time not putting on, until I apologized and revealed I was in fact an American.

“Yeah, I figured,” he laughs showing his teeth which are still in good shape, yellow, but straight and intact.

“Oh yeah, how’d you know? Could you tell before I sat down?”

“Just your accent.” He keeps his voice low and quiet. I want to say I don’t have an accent, but I realize that when you’re in the United Kingdom and talk like you’re from Lancaster Pennsylvania that is exactly what you have. I started telling him my story; studying abroad, not impressed with some of my peers from across the pond, not sure out of the seventy-five people in the world who got this chance that they are all deserving. He nods, “Not everyone gets what they deserve, especially here. Money can buy you anything you want here, know what I mean? Education or whatever else.” He gives another soft chuckle and nod, and I can sense that the majority of James’ interactions consist of nods and soft chuckles, a pleaser.

“So the reason for the cigarette and the sit-down is to ask you a question,” and I begin my lead in. “You see people, and people see you, I mean if they choose to—” a nod and a chuckle,

“Yeah.”

“But you see those people, and they see you, so if you could say one thing to them, to those people that walk past you daily, what would you want to say?” James takes a drag on his cigarette,

“I’d tell people that I’ve got feelings you know. That just because I’m out here, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel. How you treat me, whether kindly or badly, says more about you than it does me.”

Before he can continue, another guy I haven’t met before pulls up on his bicycle, coming to a stop and looking over his shoulder at us sitting there.

It’s obvious to me that I’m the outlier here, and I half expect him to tell me to fuck off when James’ cell phone rings. He pulls it out from under his sweatshirt, a model the people at the Apple store would laugh at and dub the “candy bar” phone.

He turns his head away from me, throwing his voice into the phone. I’ve been around long enough to understand the type of phone-call; and that I don’t have James’ fix. He exchanges less than ten words before turning back to me,
“Sorry mate, gotta take care of this, alright?” I shake his hand and thank him for his time. I can feel the guy on the bicycle staring at me as I walk off into the night.

 

 

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