It was the first Sunday in May and Jon planned his speech in the Park to coincide with the May Day holiday, and anticipating that it might prove provocative he promised himself a breakfast to sustain himself for the output of adrenalin he would have to use. He walked through the Park towards the lakeside restaurant: it was still early, and the dew was fresh, the leaves looked innocent in their newness, and the ducks looked broody. The tranquility of the scene was rudely shattered when a youth walked towards him. He was dirty, long hair knotted, trousers tied with an old tie, and out of his coat pocket a greeny coloured bottle peered.
"Morning, sir. Gotta tanner, have you?" The young man spoked in an educated voice. His breath stank and his eyes were full of despair.
"No, I've not got a tanner. Youd only spend it on more of that damned stuff," said Jon pointing to the bottle. "But you can come with me and well have a darned good breakfast."
"Seems I can't hold myself together," said the young man in reply to Jons questions. "Did well at school, but never had friends. Couldnt seem to mix. I came to London, thinking it would be easy. Looked pretty good then. But I couldnt seem to hold a job, always wanted something else. Kind of grass greener in someone elses field. I wasnt drinking then. Now it seems its all that keeps me going. Vicious circle I'm in. I drink and I'm a mess, and no one will employ me, and when I can manage to tidy up I can't seem to find work any more. I know Im for the rubbish tip, and when I'm sober that scares me."
By now they had arrived at the restaurant. Jon guided the young man to a seat and went to order what he could afford. While he was waiting to be served he glanced around and watched the looks of disapproval of the customers at the state of his guest. Two of them moved across to the far side of the room. Jon collected his order, and went to sit with the young man.
"Not too bad," laughed Jon. "Couldnt make it stretch any further. I'm looking for work too, over twenty jobs I've tried for during this last weekend. Been turned down at the lot, some because of my age and some obviusly because of my appearance but they didnt actually say that. Now eat up, young man. This will help, even if only for a moment."
"I'm mighty grateful, sir. But dont the dirty looks that these people give me make you feel bad? I feel I was something the cat brought in. S'ppose its the bottle and my untidy hair. God! What would my parents think if they knew I was like this."
"Isnt that a good enough reason to get yourself together?" asked Jon. He was not going to give the youngster a sermon.
"Some days I think I'll manage, then I buy another bottle just to help me on, and so it goes. But sir, its done me the world of good just to be accepted for what I am. Thanks for that, and for the grub." Jon kept the converstion light, the youth knew himself well, it was up to him and him only to get straight. An outsider could not give advice. They soon left the restaurant, and Jon walked towards Speakers Corner.
The crowd on his patch were waiting. Jon got his step ladder. Slowly he began.
"May Day just gone and all the celebrations are over for the year. Now I am going to talk about the state of the Soviet Union, that so-called communist state. Funny sort of communism, everything dictated from the top. Where is the equality? Where is the right for the peasant to speak out?"
"Bleedin same ere. No one listens to shop floor or people with nuffink in pockets."
"Who makes the rules? Just the small and powerful minority sucking like leeches the life blood of the poor, and who grab for more and more power and authority."
"Dont ave to go furver than nose to find tha." He paused, determined not to be put off his theme. "I am told that the fishes have to move aside because of Russian submarines. I am told that millions of people are hungry while guns come before butter, before freedom. If that kernel of autocrats in power do not relax their grip on the people, and if the liberalisation that Kruschov has tried to put into practise is thwarted then the U.S.S.R will not survive in world opinion. We know their concentration camps are full, we know that geniuses are given psychiatric treatment by morons whose sole job is certifying. We know that thousands are wrongly imprisoned. We know that thousands join the K.G.B and so become exempt from human service. We know that the Jews live in fear, fear of betrayal, fear of progroms. But you cannot douce the spirit of the simple Russian people. One day these people, those in the Soviet Resistance, will create a climatic freedom, the Latvian, Lithuanians, the Estonians and the people in concentration camps will be rid of the ruthless power of the hammer and sickle. The Soviet Dictatorship will be overthrown in one decade. The thousands of Jews will be free of persecution and will be able to go to worship their God and retain their own culture in Israel. Men wrongly imprisoned will be released. Communications with the West will be re-assumed. Fellow citizen will trust fellow citizen.
"Having said all that, what next. What about us, here?"
Jon stuck to his point. "That is the situation told briefly. I can tell you more. But there are other similar cases, where dictatorship, oppression and denigration of the individual occur. I call on you all to oppose these tyrannies, where man is manipulated, where human progress is not only retarded but obstructed, where the individual does not count as an individual, only as a number. You say, what about us here? Some say that you can do nothing. I say you can. Talk about oppression, write about oppression. On your own doorsteps watch out for cases where the individual is not given due respect, young or old. Speak out against tyrannies where man is brain-washed, influenced by subtle dogmas and slogans. We must all stop human progress from being retarded or obstructed."
Jon stayed on his ladder and fielded questions, some were loaded with anger, some proved threatening. The silent policemen seemed to move closer, they were watching the battle of words. Before Jon left his step ladder he called out, "those whose job it is to watch for the safety of this country, and who are here time and again in disguise, will see who among this lot," and he waved his hand over the heads of the crowd, "you will see from this lot who are patriots of our country, and those who have the power to undermine and divide. I leave it to you, gentlemen." He packed up the ladder and quickly left the gathering, some angry voices shouting after him.
The adrenalin that surged through his veins after his speech soon drained away and once again he took to the road and walked to Covent Garden, to the small cafe open round the clock. "Cuppa, please," he asked the owner, a cheerful old type London cockney.
"Anythin t'eat?" asked Bill, his cap turned round backwards, spotted scarf twisted round his neck.
"Not to-day, thanks. I'm a bit skint. But, my goodness, you've no idea what it means to us to know that you're always open. Over these months you've been a life-line."
"ave a banger, on tick," offered Bill. We know yer well enough. Know yu'd square up in th'end."
"Sure I would. Wouldnt leave a bad debt. Jobs dont grow on trees for my age group. Thanks a lot, mate, thanks a lot." He took his mug and banger and found a vegetable crate and sat in a corner well away from the bustling crowd. Being Sunday they were mostly flower sellers at small stalls. Among the sellers and buyers were those who, like himself had no where to go, but who unlike himself had nothing to do.
Work, work, work, top of my list is paid work. I Won't try any more pubs as I think the youngsters from the colleges are filling those gaps. I've a hunch I will get a place at the I.T.V Headquarters. Will try there tomorrow. Then I could kill two birds with one stone, earn money and find out the kind of person who controls the domestic air power and manipulates the mind of the public.
Just look at those peoples faces. Shuffling around, eyes down, deadpan expressions. They seem soul dead, moving statues of boredom. How do they inwardly deal with endless boredom?
Tucked in his corner, and comfortable on his box Jon took out and wrote in his pad, a pad that was rapidly filling up with poems, statements to bring to mind passing thoughts of philosophies, and notes for the backbone of speeches.
Fear of boredom is like being scared of the dark. We continue to pretend to serve the Goddess of eternal youth, until we see through the deception of pretence and we start to lose composure at the oncoming piles of nothingness. Instead despertion causes us to feel insecure, and in the clutches of desperation we lack the ability to be able to fulfill our needs, and we wallow in boredom. The enemy of boredom is the bottle or the needle, and both being readily available we reach for one of them. Amongst the droning decibels of noise of so called fashionable music, we admit to self inadequacy, none of the standards imposed during the previous years being reached or maintained. But even at this level of nothingness there are things we cannot accept or dare not reject. At this moment need and the birth of acceptance come together, making a way for awareness. This awareness can start the search for truth, a seed sown in nothingness.
Now can begin our start in lifemanship. The extrovert and loneliness are exchanged for aloneness, with self sufficiency. The helplessness of a cuddly teddy bear is rejected. We start to wonder at the influence of phallic dependence, and declare that we need no longer become its daily wounded casualty. We realise that the pastime between the thighs is no passport to joy, only a fragmented moment of pleasure which often has costly side effects. We are starting to know that we have to help ourselves. Advice, manipulations, emotional blackmail can come from all quarters, from friends, counsellors, the media, the religionists, but it is we ourselves that have to sift out the right course for ourselves. For any journey undertaken for the wrong reasons is doomed to failure. But why am I writing we? Perhaps it is my deepest wish that these poor sad futureless wanderers could be embraced in that thinking. Then they would have a spark of hope.
Finding work is more and more difficult. Perhaps its Lifes way of telling me that no action can be more profitable than action. To do or not to do, that is not the question, nor does the answer lie in just manipulating, or performing a function to keep up with those who believe that to conform to the majority gives a rightness to the cause.
Jon put his pad away, and sat still, statue-like.
God damn it, its nine months since I left home. Am I on the right track? Its just such hard work keeping going, any sort of roof over my head is a time consuming problem. Light, heat and warmth is free at Rolling Stock hotel, but the cost of getting there is enormous. Its hard to concentrate on an empty tummy, can't really think constructive thoughts. Dont even crave for a cigarette any more. THAT was a hurdle well taken. I've kept pretty well so far, except for my feet, and a nasty looking rash inside my groin. Spose thats the pee blowing back at me when I am outside, and I've nothing to dry off on. Could get quite sore if I dont take care. Am I cutting myself off from people, I dont mean my family, just every sort of people? That can be the downfall for a revolutionary like myself looking for change. If people are hurt by social demands I try to hard to help, but my efforts are like a grain of sand in the desert. Maybe that one grain will help to support a great palm. Wonderful thought.
"Hi, there, old cock." Bill's face loomed before Jons eyes, bringing him back with a jolt from his mental roamings. "Yer bin ere so long, thought yer were a statue. Writin away in that there pad. Cuppa on the slab for yer. Never seen un sit so still. Thought yer were a gonner."
"I've a long way to go yet," laughed Jon, his limbs creaking with the effort of standing up. "Backbone of London, you are. Youre always cheerful, and seem to know exactly what is going on. Wish there were more like you. Cockneys seem a dying breed."
"Tha's right, mate. Whas good enough for us, isnt good enough for younguns. You ear my Bertha. She right blows off wot they're doin to our street. Blocks of flats ere, blocks of flats there. There be no more talkin on doorsteps. No more poppin and out for cuppa. Its all change, rushin ere, rushin there, and wot for? If these younguns," he pointed to the figures roaming round, "if these younguns ad stayed ome and worked nearby theyd not be like they are. Given ideas by tha bloody box. ere yer are, mate. ave a sandwich. Plenty cut, and its Sunday. Shouldnt get many coming to-night. Me brother comes at ten. There must be cuppa for them that wants un."
"Youre worth a million," said Jon. "Ill square you up with a bonus one day. I can accept a cuppa from you, as you make me feel there are no strings attached. When a charity hands one out the Lord has to be praised or some such. I even had a prayer leaflet shoved in my hand the other day."
Bill burst out laughing. "Yerve got yer own ideas. Keep goin. Cum agin an see me."
The rest of Sunday passed by slowly. Jon spent the start of the night at Waterloo, sitting on a bench. The railway police came marching by, flashlights flailing. "Move on, you there, move on. Not you again, dont want any cheek from you." The uniformed man started to look even more aggressive.
Jon replied, this time somewhat mildly, "you've helped me to learn one thing. I value what little sleep you lot allow me now I'm sleeping rough, and it makes the sleep I had when I had a bed seem of poor value and quite unappreciated. Wish you'd realise sleep was more important than food. You wouldnt be so eager to wake us all up. But we all know that the likes of you do not have an inkling how it feels not to have. May you all rot in your own beds!"
"Thats enough. Move on, and out of here, quick."
"Cant go quick, you fool. My legs are numb. But I'm off in my own time, dont you worry." Jon hobbled out of the precinct towards the city. Tired as he was after three hours sleep he stayed on Waterloo Bridge to watch the sunrise. The water moving slowly and sluggishly played games with itself, the ripples seemingly wanting to stay in night time shades, the orange glow of the dawning sun slowly winning by painting out the darker colours. The black silhouettes seemed defiant in the darkness, then as the sun rose above the horizon they too took on the challenge of daylight. Noise was muted save for the sea gulls, those wild fishermen now known as town scavangers, screaming for their breakfast. This brief respite into the world of nature brought balm to Jons soul and he silently thanked the policeman for disturbing his night.
After a big wash and brush up in the toilets, cleaning his shoes with toilet paper and water, he felt he looked passable. He walked slowly to the I.T.V Headquarters, up the stairs, and again asked to see the Personnel Manager.
Hope they dont hear my tummy rumbling, I'm so God darned hungry. Perhaps theyll give me a cuppa.
To appear less of a wanderer he left his precious bag in the care of the Hall Porter and received a disc in return. The Pesonnel Manager was a middle aged man, who seemed to fall between conforming to convention and being a little off beat. He had shoulder length hair, which sat oddly in his role, he wore a collar and tie, but with a leather jacket covered with badges. He had grey trousers of an old fashioned cut, and brown suede shoes. Both men seemed to have good feelings for each other and the Manager immediately offered Jon a job in the kitchens, doing the vegetables and clearing the tables. Again he was on the bottom of the ladder, but he nicknamed himself a potato surgeon, and laughed to himself.
"You can start straight away," said the Manager. "Your boss will be Matilda. Shes black, but shes a good sort. If you work well, youll get on with her. I have a feeling you might be able to give her a bit of moral support. You can feed in the canteen, the rates are much reduced for staff. Hope this suits you."
"Ill give it a go," Jon replied, determined to hide his eagerness to get near some food and hot drink. This time he was given a clean white overall. Having been shown the geography of the canteen, the kitchen, the recreational room, and of course the toilets, Jon was introduced to Matilda, then the Manager left for his other duties. Matilda was the roundest, blackest woman Jon had ever seen, with the thickest lips giving the widest smile he had ever received. She spoke beautiful English in a deep mellow voice.
"Hello," she said, "cant shake hands with you, look at this flour up to my elbows. You've just come at the right moment. Look at that pile of veg to be tackled before the dinner hour. Last lad left yesterday, cant think why he wasnt happy. He wasnt a streak of lightening anyways, maybe he Won't find work as easily as he thinks. But you're no lad," Matilda looked at Jon, her merry eyes quizzical. "Knives are in this drawer," and she pointed to a cupboard. "When I'm free of the flour Ill make you a how do you do cup of tea. Were a bit pushed till the lunch hour is over."
True to her word, a large mug of tea arrived shortly. Jon beavered away with the vegetables. Then miraculously a huge plate of thick sandwiches appeared. "Do you mind working through the lunch break? Were so behind hand with the lad going without notice," Matilda asked anxiously.
"Of course I dont mind," said Jon with a laugh. "And if you blink your eyelids just once youll find all the sandwiches gone." He wolfed down the food, glad to feel his hunger a bit abated.
"My, that was quick," said Matilda. "Have a feeling its some while since you ate." Another plate of sandwiches arrived. "Make your first day a treat day, Won't happen again," said Matilda with a twinkle. Jon could guess that she had the treasured ability to assess need when the need was real, a gift that those who live near to the grass roots of life seem to acquire.
Jon worked the middle shift, ten a.m. till six or seven p.m. It suited him very well. There were good toilet facilities, and he was able to keep himself remarkably clean and tidy, and could tend to the angry rash on his groin. He even managed to wash a few clothes, putting them in a plastic bag till the evening time, and then drying them in the warm night air. Summer certainly had its compensations for those whose bedroom embraced the heavens. He asked to be paid daily till he could save up enough to last a week, and then he went on weekly payments. Soon he was promoted from vegetable boy to domestic duties in the restaurant itself. He collected the dirty items, emptied ashtrays, and cleaned the floor and tables. As a member of staff he was able to use the bar to which all members of the Headquarters were allowed. Without his white coat, and as neat and tidy as he could be, he looked little different from the other staff. He talked with anyone he could, always questioning, always probing, often promulgating his concepts for the need for change. He felt this was a very fertile area for his ideas.
One evening he was drinking on his own, stoking up before embarking on his night times hassle. A heavily built, well dressed man approached him.
"Evening, Jon," said the Director. "Mind if I sit here? Sorry for calling you by your Christian name, but I dont know your other one."
"To begin with," said Jon prickily, "Jon is not my Christian name, for I am not a Christian. It is however my first name. Secondly, I dont mind a bit where you sit. As you well know free seats are available to anyone. I know you're the Director of this set up, so what do you want of me?"
"Thats not a very good beginning," thought the Director. "Wonder why he's so defensive." Aloud he said, "Hope you're O.K. here. Matilda is a tower of strength isnt she? How come, though, you are doing this kind of job?"
"I dont ask you how come you are doing your kind of job, do I?" Jon seemed really aggressive.
"Dont want to rattle you, Jon. Won't ask any more questions. But some of the staff have heard you speaking in the Park, and they like what you say. They were, and I was too, wondering why you are here? Im sure I could use some of your ideas on the media. Have you any thoughts of doing anything different."
"Sorry I was abrupt, sir," Jon replied. "I feel people are always trying to get me to do something I dont want to do, and with money usually as the carrot. Thanks for the offer, I am sure it was meant kindly, but I dont want to feel manipulated, and that is part why I am where I am."
"But you're wasted, peeling potatoes and clearing the tables. It makes me angry to see such talent going unused. In fact, if I catch you in the kitchen in a months time," and then the Director laughed, "Ill punch you on the chin."
"And if you offer me promotion, I shall leave," replied Jon quickly. Both men were laughing, and they struck up a happy relationship, and drank late into the night. When the Director looked at his watch he was aghast.
"Gosh, I'm late. Must phone my missus. She is used to me arriving home at unexpected hours. Have you far to go?" he asked.
"Not too far and not too near," replied Jon evasively. The Director was not listening, and they parted after a rapid handshake, Jon to his trees and grass under the sky and the Director to his well appointed home. Like the other staff, the well paid well dressed Director did not dream that his fellow drinker, complete with collar and tie, could be sleeping at Cardboard Hall.
Matilda was a joy to Jon. She worked very hard and ran the kitchen and the restaurant with great skill and zeal. In spite of her excellent English she was ridiculed and mimicked, and Jon was able to go to her defence. One evening she took Jon to her home and introduced him to her family, tall black husband, and two bonny bouncing black teenagers. He had a wonderful evening, they lavished Barbadian hospitality on him, and Jon relaxed in the warmth of family unity. But he felt a vacuum in his own heart, a sudden yearning for the hustle and bustle of his other life. He acknowledge this yearning and suppressed it as quickly as he could. Without questioning, Matilda always left food on a plate for him which he could either eat as he worked, or wrap up for the evening hours. He was glad to see her every day.
If the recreation room was quiet he would slipped in there for an hour to write in his pad, if it was occupied he wrote under the stars by lamp light if he were sober enough. Most evenings he went to one of his favourite pubs, and put the liquid gun to his head, a necessary evil of escapism for him.
The landlord of the Jug and Bottle used to be a well known wrestler, and he collected odd customers around him from all parts of the world, paying customers with individual tendencies he called them. Jon liked this joyful publican who managed to keep unwanted disturbances to the minimum on his premises. However brief their dialogue was to each other both held a silent respect for each others position.
One evening two very attractive women stood at the bar. Although they were not regulars the landlord made a great fuss of them, blatantly ogling at the taller blonde. Jon stood and watched, mesmerised by the feminity of the striking women.
Its a long time since I've been close to such sexual attraction. Wonder If I'll get a rise on? Just look at those breasts and long long legs. No, nothings happening, nothing stirring. Damn it, am I losing all sexual feelings cos I'm living rough. Not old enough for that. Wonder if it happens to other dossers. Havent spoken to them about it.
The experience landlord made it easy for Jon to be accepted in the conversation. "We're both actresses," said the blonde. "But can you guess, were resting." And they laughed nervously. "In other words we havent got an acting job."
"But," said her friend, long black hair twisting senuously down to her waist. "I'm lucky to be able to earn some money." The landlord was called to another customer, so Jon was the only listener to the two women. "Its the most God-darned awful boring job. I teach fat business men how to make speeches so that they can make more money to make themselves even fatter. I hate every moment of it, but we need the money. They dont seem to think I'm an ordinary person with ordinary feelings. I cant help my face and figure, and I've got to look good as that is all part of my bread and butter. can't stop them pawing me at every possible moment. They know I've been on the stage and this seems to give them the idea I'm on the sex market. Just like it is when you're a widow."
She looked at her friend, her lovely blonde friend. Jon saw in both their beautiful faces a tired expression which reflected the weariness of spirit, the blonde was wearing a wedding ring. He felt quite paternal towards them both, an older man in sympathy with youth.
"Its hard at times," replied Jon, "specially in a world where standards are getting lower and lower. But There's one thing you've got to remember, and this may help. There are many of us compelled to pass through experiences and have to fight to keep our own identity. You are not alone."
When it was time to close, the actresses packed up to go. The blonde turned to Jon and said, "thank you for giving me courage to go on."
Jon was a bit taken aback, but he replied, "I didnt give you courage. I only took away the things that were obscuring courage from yourself."
He felt glad that all three of them had, for a moment, shared a sense of soul, without strings. Once again he left his new found acquaintances to go to their homes, and he went to search for a box and an alleyway. As he pottered down the side streets off the Brompton Road he looked up at the sky. It was starless, it looked brooding and heavy with rain. Even the cats were darting here and there as if anxious to find their beds. At the top of three steps there were several boxes, mostly small. There were no lights on in the building and it appeared to be offices.
Jon did the best he could with the boxes breaking some down to lie on, and covering himself with the rest. He even tried to make a wall of empty ones to stop him from being seen from the road. Then it started to rain, and it poured. Great drops seemed to attack him from every corner where the boxes left a gap. There was nothing he could do but ride it out, fortunately the problem of being soaked was not a calamity, just another occurence that had to be accepted. Then the storm passed and suddenly the rain stopped. Jon stayed where he was, there was nothing better to do. Dawn had not yet started. While he dozed fitfully he heard a car, which screeched to a stop, then he saw the familiar beam of light.
"Move on, come on, get up. Youll be had for trespassing." A boot poked Jon under the buttocks. Although the invader had a peaked cap which Jon could see silhouetted against the sky Jon called out quickly.
"I'm getting up. But first show me your card. I want to know just who and what you are. I'm harming no one, I'm minding my own business, and I'm very very wet. You know there will be no where to go for the rest of the night. Why can't you be more human and go and get a real burglar? I think it boosts your ego to take away what dignity were left with. But you're probably so stupid you dont know what I am talking about." Jon was standing up now. "Where's this card I asked for? Your identity card?"
"Shut your trap, and shove off," was all the constable replied, and he hastily moved towards the car.
"O.K," shouted Jon, "you dont show me your card. I can see the number of your car. Got plenty of time to go to the Station to report you."
"You piss off," shouted the constable banging the door. "If you give us more trouble, well make trouble for you." The car reversed and screeched off down the small road.
Ah, well! It takes all sorts to make a world. There are some good uns in the force. Its sad they deal with us like that. Cor, Im soaked. Will swop my shirt and sweater with the ones from my bag. Theyll dry off in the afternoon. Trousers will have to stay wet. Never mind. Pity about the sleep. Couldve done with a few hours undisturbed. Now I'll just walk around keeping warm till daylight.