The roar, hum, splutter, squeal, chitter chatter, clank, beep didn’t bother him at all, but the jingle, jangle, clank from his right trouser pocket was doing his head in. The grinding mass seemed to grow larger with every step, like a canker eating into his leg. His right hand, with strategically naturalistic positioning, might have been able to muffle it for a few moments at a time, but the risk of drawing even more attention to himself was too great. A more logical person might have suggested redistributing the offending items between left and right pockets, but nobody likes a smart arse. If there was one thing the man in this story did know about more than anything, it was how to mind his own business.
As the pavement grew steeper, so the clank at the end of the jingle, jangle intensified, like a wounded pigeon sending out a signal to every street vulture in town. A short distance ahead, a homeless man sat below an ATM; beyond that, a Big Issue seller. Normal tactics, avoiding eye contact, looking the other way, attaching himself to a group, weren’t going to work this time. The last thing he needed right now was a double guilt trip. A radical solution was called. He had to cross the road. This was a lot more complicated than it might sound. Quite possibly, the homeless man had already spotted him. It was imperative that the whole manoeuvre appear totally natural, deliberate but not contrived, and on no account give any indication of its true intention.
Treading stealthily towards the edge of the kerb, he looks up at an oncoming bus, half raises his left hand towards his head in a perplexed manner, then subtly squints both eyes. Following the line of the passing bus, he swings his glance towards the opposite bus stop, open eyes and mouth signalling recognition of his original mistake. With the scene now set, he was ready to make the crossing. Once on the other side, all he had to do was wait for a bus to come and then disappear down the side street. Minutes later, he would emerge several hundred metres down the original road in the direction he wished to travel. Admittedly, the side streets were not without their perils, but he had practised this ploy many times before.
The chance had come, a gap in the traffic. His foot moved into the road with a jingle, jangle, clank… and then it came… a face from the crowd pointing directly at his.
“Gotta light mate?”
He looked down at his pockets, a vague lighter outline, then at the man. The traffic was still clear; perhaps the man hadn’t noticed. Or maybe it was a trap. He told everybody he didn’t smoke. Perhaps this man was sent to catch him out? Others were watching? Or worse still? He had read about it in the paper; they demand cigarettes, then bring out hammers and knives. Turning his eyes towards the bus stop, he steps further into the road, but his hesitation has cost him dearly. A motorcycle is first to break the lights, forcing him back onto the kerb. The man looks at him expectantly. Defending his pockets with his hands, it takes all his strength to murmur a pitiful, “Sorry.”
Shame hits him like a tidal wave. Ha-ha, hum, splutter, ha-ha, clip, clap, chatter, ha-ha, ha. Buses, cars, bikes and trees, people, dogs and soaring birds mock him with their laughing jeers. Jingling and jangling, he stumbles into the road.
Beep, screech, squeal, thump.
A moment’s silence.
Chitter, chatter. Sirens wail.
In his pockets were a green plastic lighter, nearly empty, coins of multiple denominations, an Oyster card, unregistered, and a wad of Pret-a-Manger serviettes contained within a small self-sealing plastic bag. A true professional.
Even as sole mourner, I was an intruder at his funeral. ”Private, modest, considered, respectful” were the officiant’s words. But, as even the most humble know, hubris gets us all in the end.