Soup was the answer. For a man who lived so long, it was surprising how few life skills he’d accumulated. But he could make soup.
Being broke for years taught him the fine art of cheapskatery. Basic vegetable ingredients provided terrific value; a base of garlic, onion, peppers, carrot and celery softened in a giant tub, bulked out with tinned tomatoes, lentils, rice or pasta, flavoured with elemental herbs, spices, ginger and chili made a power-bowl of pure health.
He paid for the food himself, sure in knowledge he was legitimately earning and could claim back expenses at the end of the month. Meat was a luxury still out of his budget, so the vegetarian diet would have to suffice; even if there were moans they weren’t getting a beef curry, he was confident his meals would nourish empty stomachs.
As he cooked, he studied the workings of his new employ. Fred, Jude and Penny were the inner circle within the greater circle of love. They frequently huddled together; eavesdropping how Jude and Penny coached Fred on oration – which words to raise and when to soften for maximum effect, sky-pointing fingers and decisive fists to underline higher meanings in his speeches.
The rest of the group were of less interest – a supporting cast of Star Trek red shirts;.he struggled to find common ground. He tried to make an effort, but the nodding smiles and glazed eyes revealed little behind them. Wanking in the mirror was more fun and no-one really wanted to look at their own vinegar strokes.
Whispers of money matters from the main trio hinted at the knife edge they teetered to maintain the charitable works; raising donations from street chugging was a necessity. He suspected his new role might be putting strain on frugal coffers, but it emboldened him to supply extra value for money.
He worked hard, long hours, but as the week wore on it felt less like work, as satisfaction awakened a new calm, with sense of belonging in a club that wanted him as a member, Groucho begone. He slept long and deep each night, insomnia an outlying dream now. There was no better feeling than feeling you’re good.
MANY OF THE LOST JUST WANTED TO KNOW THEY WEREN’T FORGOTTEN
Bob was one of the regulars; a gay, toothless, venereal disease-riddled, homeless junkie-drunk, whose skin was black with sun-crusted dirt and cackled like Sid James on acid. He liked Bob; Bob had stories to tell.
He often sat with Bob at his table; his job was to provide support, be it healthy, spiritual or mental and he suspected that many of the lost just wanted to know they weren’t forgotten. An easy chat and a reassuring smile were sometimes all it took to let someone know they still mattered; their life held meaning, no matter how off-the-radar they flew.
Besides, Bob was genuinely balls-out bloody funny. He was a man who never said no to anything, be it fight, fuck or frivolity. He’d spent a life as much in as out of prison, tattoos and scars pock-marked every inch and he chose to laugh rather than cry at his fortune.
“I’ve enjoyed it all,” said Bob. “Life is for living and if I’ve hurt myself along the way, least that’s better than hurting anyone else.”
If Bob was a man who could’ve had it all, clearly brighter than current situation told, he chose not to regret those decisions which curdle minds in retrospect. Looking at Bob, a part of him saw an alternate future, if wrong turns never reversed. We could all be Bob, beware ye who stray ‘ere.
He kept Bob company in the alley outside when the dissolute skeleton smoked. Bob always offered him a gammy roll-up, which he always politely refused. He didn’t want Penny to see him as a smoker. At such times, he reminded himself he was working for a church group; although preacher’s robes were an ill suit, he still felt a need to slip ‘the message’ in every so often.
“You really have no regrets?” he said. “We can all change ways if we want. You’ve tried everything else, why not try Him on for size.”
“Ah, I know you mean well son,” said Bob. “But bollocks to all that. I just like it up the chutney bit too much.”
RED FLAGS WERE EASY TO IGNORE WHEN ENJOYING THE SKIP AND BASK OF GREEN FIELDS
It was late in the evening when he felt Jude’s eyes boring into his neck as he toiled, scrubbing gunge from soup pots, after a healthy day’s feeding. He didn’t turn, some people’s conversations never flowed easy, so waited for the imminent quiz.
“You seem to be spending quite some time with Bob,” said Jude eventually.
“Yes,” he said. “He’s got quite a few stories to tell.”
“It might be said you’re encouraging him. Some people shouldn’t be. He’s not really one of us, you know?”
He smiled, his patter came smoother each day. “Well, he may not be Christian per se, or anything I think, but doesn’t the Good Book inspire us to offer a helping hand to those who have fallen?”
Jude’s eyes narrowed while his smile widened. It reminded him of Charles Bronson before he shot someone. “Some fall too far. You’ve often slipped in, uh, other beliefs I notice, so I know you understand the Buddhist concept of Karma – their universal rule of cause and effect. Bob chose his path and may he reap the stones on the rocky ground he sowed.” He couldn’t be sure if Jude really did lick his lips, or imagination now painted him as Gestapo boy.
He put down his pot. “Do you know the word Schadenfreude?”
“Schadenfreude?”
“Yeah. Means to take pleasure in other’s misery. Not the most Christian desire in the book, but hey, took the Germans to invent a word for it right?”
“Uh, right. Well, it’s just best not to be too fostering to some of our flock. It may result in putting off those more deserving from joining us.”
They smiled and nodded at each other, different pages turning. Although the conversation unsettled, he cast doubts aside. He should have known then, but red flags were easy to ignore when enjoying the skip and bask of green fields.
Hove Press 