Attitudes of Collapse

The three loners at the Haig remain. While the old man can afford batteries for his transistor he endures. Being thrifty the chap runs them down to a whisper, so his hearing must be OK. Evenings he catches the breeze on the void beneath Block 7, where the thinnest volume is boosted. Newspapers some nights in that pallid light means eyes not bad either. When he is overtaken by sleep the man invariably slumps slightly to one side. Smiles, waves and cheerios without fail; an umbrella against the sun. (The drought goes on here. Doreen took a mid-afternoon shower today in an effort to cool off..) The tall Indian-Malay sometimes caught in the corner of the children's playground late night on one of the seats continues as before. An occasional red bull, an occasional chat here and there with acquaintances and sometimes a sit at one of the tables. Not entirely bereft; one never finds this chap sleeping out. The third on the fringe of the exercise yard was hanging his head low this afternoon. With one foot up on a knee, still the head bowed down so far. Dor knows nothing of the case. Like everyone else she knows the figure in his corner, his habits and routines; but Doreen knows nothing of family, where he sleeps, where he gets his money for his Anchors. Chap was capable of speech. Three or four times he had stopped on his bicycle to exchange greetings, never expressly asking for coin. Coin comes to him completely unbidden from more than one source no doubt, regardless of the drink; even from the Muslims no doubt. To date the man has not called out at any of the slinking past or skirting of his iron bench.