Ziggy

Ziggy’s got blue eyes that would belong to a movie star if they weren’t so deeply sunken into his head.

He camps out under a vacated storefront awning on George Street with a black-and-white dog named Ash. He wears his dirty blonde hair in a California-worthy pony-tail accented with a feather, looking as if he’d be just as comfortable being one of Pan’s lost boys.

His teeth serve as proof that he’s been outdoors since February. He holds a sign that reads,

“Smile it’s good for your soul.”

I sat down with him and told him I liked his shtick.

“Well I know it isn’t pleasant to be out here asking for money, so I just try to put a positive spin on it.”

“Yeah, the old, you catch more flies with honey.”

“Sorry?”

“There’s a saying, you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” He laughs.

“I’ve never heard that before.” A spark catches in my heart hoping he carries it with him, for the first time in Oxford I start to feel like I may have given someone something.

When I ask him for his message to the masses he sets in like he’s been waiting for someone to ask.

“I would tell them that you have self-worth. You have an impact on those around you, and your influence carries more than you know. That’s why I have the sign, just to try and have a positive impact.” He then added as an after-thought, “It seems it’s easier to spread negativity though, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded, agreeing with both his philosophy and observation of the contagiousness of negativity.

“What’s your story?”

“Ah, I’m just the lucky American studying Shakespeare and writing abroad.” The pavement is thick with foreign students, guys with their stylishly tight pants, girls in skimpy dresses.

“Ziggy, is it alright that I’m sitting here talking with you? I know you’re working.”

“I’m not really working,” he says with a somber note in his throat, “and it’s no problem. It’s amazing to just have someone sit-down and talk with you like you’re a person.”

I wonder the last time he’s had a conversation with someone willing to look him in the eye. Two other lost boys pace nervously in front of us on the side-walk, leery to sit. I’m not sure if it is a, “protect your own mentality”, or a general aversion to faces they don’t know, but I’m expecting to be asked to get lost again.

Ziggy doesn’t seem worried, but why should he be? After all, I’m in his house.

I ask him about his living quarters.

“If I collect enough I stay at the Gloucester Green hostel, otherwise I sleep out here.”

A beautiful girl approaches us in a flowery dress that teases the imagination with the hope for a quick breeze, and she apologizes for fumbling with her bag before giving Ziggy a pound.

“It must be nice to have someone give you change, and be a beautiful woman.”

He laughs, “I’ve met a lot of nice women since being on the street, and a lot of nice people in general. Some mean people, but that’s to be expected too.” I wonder how he feels knowing he could interest most girls that walk by, if only he didn’t have just a curb to take them back to.

I sense I’ve used up my time and I shake Ziggy’s hand sitting on the sidewalk next to him. When I stand he stands too, shaking my hand again and wishing me well.

 

 

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