remote cards

Two guys and a woman swagger down the street. The two guys in sleeveless t-shirts - its been a warm day. They have that air to them, that says they would cause trouble at the best of times. They have that air to them that says they’ve been drinking. The taller guy is the more threatening - a base ball cap, base ball shoes, stamping on the ground, talking loudly, his gait that of someone looking for a fight. There is a plastic bottle of water on the ground, half full, he takes a good swing and kicks it hard, so that when it lands it does so with a hearty thump. The two policemen in their bright yellow jackets stop and turn around. They watch the guy continue to roll down the street. The senior of the two gives a nod, and the two policemen approach the trio. The big guy sees this and puts off the next kick, instead bending to pick up the bottle, announcing loudly that he is just going to put it in the bin, walking by the police as though they couldn’t possibly be wanting to talk to him. But they persist, so he turns, and in doing so, I can see for the first time that he only has 1 arm, the other a stump below the shoulder. But his body language remains aggressive even if is placatory enough that they are allowed to walk away, though the police watch every step, waiting for him to act up again.

Update. It’s about a week later the next time I see the one armed guy. He is taking on the role of the homeless man, whether he is or isn’t I can’t say. He is obviously part of one of the groups of these people you see. He sits by one of those concrete posts in the pedestrian part of the street, which don’t seem to serve any apparent purpose. He leans his back against the pillar, sat cross legged, again a sleeveless t-shirt to emphasize his body – shouting at people that pass for money, waving that stump around in an exaggerated, look at me, look at me fashion. A couple of feet in front of him the rest of the group sit on one of the street benches, black metal bars welded into shape. There are about four of them, all scruffy and ragged, like most of the homeless you see in the city. When there are no people passing he chatters with them, as though they are taking turns – its his shift to collect money, while they put their feet up and chew the fat.

Labels: beggar, drunk, glasgow, homeless, one arm, police, streets

Outside. He staggers along the street. With that unsteady, likely to fall over in a moment style of the terribly drink, drugged or homeless. She is in better condition, just about, grim, blonde hair, tugged back beneath a white base ball cap, denim blue jacket over pink blouse top. She takes the back of his neck in one hand - pins him - holds him still, takes him in a strangle hold with her other hand, full of threat. Talks to him firmly, fiercely. Free again he rests his head and elbows on a street bin, that comes up to mid-chest level. She wanders off, before coming back to drag him after, reluctant and so hard done by. They come back, later, going the other direction, her carrying a bag of chips, folded white paper, unwrapped like a junk food flower, him staggering still. He turns and takes a handful of chips, leaning, forward and precarious. In brute fashion, she wipes her grease thick fingers on his cheeks. They get to the crossroad corner. He sinks on to a stone bench, asks a passer by for money. She drapes herself over his shoulder, kisses him like that. Minutes pass before the wander off, and out of sight again. Later, when I leave, I turn that same corner. To find them in an alleyway, whispering nothing sweet to each other.

Labels: chips, drunk, fish, glasgow, homeless, nothing, sweet

At a glance you would say they were feral teens, the papers full of news about just how bad these kids with the track suits and hair cuts and arrogant swaggers are. They shout at the man that is lying on the ground on front of them in Buchanan Street. Waving their arms wildly in his face to get a response. Clapping their hands, shouting – mate? You ok mate? You all right? Can you hear us? Is their something wrong? He is a big man, laid out flat, I’d guess he was homeless – from the layers of clothing, the hood up, the blackened, dirt encrusted fists crossed over his chest. You would perhaps guess that he was sleeping, laid out like that, I’ve seen it done before. But its only 6pm on a holiday Sunday evening in May, the sun is shining. Can someone get an ambulance, one of the boys shouts. The man hasn’t moved or reacted in the time its taken for all this to happen. The crowd grows as adults join the hubbub, deciding the best course of action. Getting further up the street I can still hear the echoing of someone clapping in his face to see if they can wake him.

Labels: ambulance, feral, glasgow, homeless, teens