The street chap in the Coles supermarket walkway in Balaclava this afternoon without a cap out and no communication with passersby. Belongings strewn around him, including a glass flagon. Thin, late thirties; tattoos, long hair. Desperately lost. Communion with the passersby the only possible reason for adopting that position. No matter he didn’t raise his eyes. No matter they gave a wide berth. Outside the entryway the two public benches where the street people sit drinking were passed over. (Sometimes tourists make the mistake of taking up these seats.) The footpath where beggars regularly camp was likewise declined. Enclosed, white-tiled, mirrored, the walkway created a dramatic, unavoidable encounter. Albeit unacknowledged on either side. From the passing feet the fellow received something. Some little thing. Almost better than coin.
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