Homeless

It's almost like magic, but it's not. It's just them playing on the fact that we rather not see them. Like the dogs with the patchy fur and prominent ribs with their pleading eyes and defeated tails. They shamble into line of sight, dare our personal space and by doing so, become Houdini. Poof. We don't want no part of them, Pan Handlers, Pariah, we skirt around them, step over them, push them past our peripherals as we go on with our lives tuning out their pleas, their hunger, their stench, their shit. We know all too well how easy it is to become them. That no matter how far we run, how high we climb, they're just around the corner if you slip. The gulf is not as vast. We hate being reminded. So we 'poof'  them from our sight. Head straight, walk fast, give them the damn $2 to ease our conscience little bit. They disappear... Like magic.

I watch them. I watch them watching us. I watch them watching us not watching them. They know us. They know us by name, they know us by profession, they know us by sins. I watch them. I study them, observing them like I was making a documentary for an animal channel. I was intrigued by them. I admired their skill. It was mesmerising this facade.

They way they became one with the garbage and the refuse, it was almost symbolic. Delving into the rancid bins, tracking through stinking gutters, tattered clothing caked in grime and bedazzled with bits of string and bubblegum. They shamble along the streets assailing our senses trailing vermin, mongrels and decay. Bottom feeding from sunrise to sunset.

I observed them and was rewarded.

I was observed observing them observing us not observing them. He looked like thousand year old wrinkled paper and smelled like piss just as old. He turned and shambled away, stopping only once to made sure I followed. We made our way around St. John's, along familiar streets, around familiar buildings in unfamiliar ways unseen in plain sight. Traversing this city until we came to a place of water and trees and blocks, a place unseen in plain sight, we entered.

'Welcome to H.O.M.E.L.E.S.S ' he said with a surprisingly smooth, deep voice. Like an opera singer. He told me everything then. They are the recorders, the keepers of Wadadli. They recorded everything that happens on this island, the history of the nation, the history of the people in intimate detail. He reveals the network existing among the caribbean countries, the grand scheme. He went on and on while my mind reeled with the revelation of this vast underground catacomb of knowledge tunneling God only knows how far beneath our feet masked by decay and stink and garbage.
'why you showing me this?'
'Isn't obvious son?' it was obvious, as plain as the conviction on his face and hope in his eyes 'you have the eyes, you can see through this world. Will you join us?

I was being Houdini, shambling through the peripherals when I noticed her noticing me noticing them not noticing us. I turned and started off, stopping only once to notice if she was following.