[ WP ] One last time

There are a lot of homeless people in my city. As a child, I was barely aware that they existed. They were the kind of grimy-grey outdoor-furniture that would just blend into the street as my family strolled on by. If my parents ever raised the subject of poverty, I ca n't recall it. 
 
 By the time I was fourteen, a social conscience was beginning to creep into the bleak malaise of my awkward teenage mind. The inconvenience of being accosted by a beggar on the street was offset by a mild sliver of empathy felt for a person in their situation. I'd still consciously avoid eye contact, though. I remember that. I'd feel bad, but feeling bad was enough. In a way I was donating something, I supposed. Why should I feel bad for *them*? Certainly there were some homeless people who'd been dealt an ill hand by fate, but far more surely were in a situation that was entirely of their own creating. To fund an alcoholic rapist's crack-habit was a step too far. No, I'd go about my day, taking on a little slice of their burden for myself, mulling over the hardships of life for a few moments after walking by. 
 
 The first homeless person I ever gave money to was Marvelous Greg the Muttering Musician. I do n't know what kind of psychosis led to the muttering, but it was clear that years of studied practise had led to the musicianing. Sitting on the curb with his weather-worn guitar, his repertoire consisted of `` the entire Beatles discography'' according to the self-made sign he'd leant next to his carry-case. His playing was unusually emotive, however, and his voice reminded me of a lower-class English Elvis. He made it work, however, and often he'd have one or two pedestrians stop and listen, sometimes throwing a few pound coins into his guitar case, mingled coppers being far more common. On this day, however, a mild drizzle had driven off any potential financiers. As I approached him, he was tuning his guitar. 
 
 `` Got ta get that there... under the overpass is where she say, yep yup badda, got ta steal the hay. Yep yup hey hey, got ta run awa -'' 
 
 `` Hi, Greg.'' I interrupt him. I pass him on my way to the bus-stop every day for work, and I'm convinced that he plays up the crazy-angle for the money. `` I'm sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in a challenge.'' 
 
 `` Every day's a challenge, innit son?'' His speaking voice is so different to his singing voice. I've always thought that people should take more care with how they speak, lest they be disrespected. I'd have thought that'd count double if you were homeless. 
 
 `` Yes Greg, of course. But I've heard you play a lot over the last few weeks, you're really good.'' Greg blinks slowly with one eye and then the other. `` So yeah, I was wondering how true the whole'complete discography' thing was. How about I name five Beatles songs, if you can give me a convincing performance of each, I'll give *you* this twenty pound note.'' I wave the money seductively, not in the name of exploitation, but in the name of class-barrier-crossing human kindness. Probably. 
 
 `` The sign's true, son. Time's a good teacher, and I've got a lot of time. Lennon, McCartney, Harrison or Starr, if they played it together, I can play it for you.'' Strange eccentricites aside, he's actually quite genial. You never expect them to have a *personality*, just a backstory. And a sign, sometimes dreadlocks. 
 
 `` Awesome, for the first one... hmm, I really enjoyed it when you played'Yesterday' yesterday, can you play it today?'' I'd have to boost his confidence in order to get him on-side for what was next. Sure enough, his take on the old hit is unaffected and basic, but tuneful and in-time. 
 
 `` It's the most requested one I get, that.'' He says conversationally. `` Probably the first piece o' music I ever learned, truth be told. I remember teaching my son the chords, it's funny because he could always sing it and play it separately, but when he tried to do both at the same time -'' 
 
 `` That's great Greg, well done.'' Yep, typical back-story. I was n't here for that, though. It felt somehow a little rude to have interrupted him, but I did n't have an umbrella. `` Next, let's try something a little more out-there. Can you play Rocky Raccoon?'' He could, intro and all. The performance was well-rehearsed, his knowledge of the band's music was obviously quite extensive. 
 
 `` Lovely little ballad, that one. There was a girl I used to know, sleepin' rough like me, taught me that one. She used to play over on St. James' Street, if you ever heard her? She always wore this, like, big black and white hunting hat. Have n't seen her in, what, christ, few years now I'm thinkin'. Funny, seein' her in that headgear always reminded me -'' 
 
 `` No Greg, I never heard her. Alright, for the next song I'd love to hear Blackbird.'' We'd been here for a fair bit of time now, and I'd noticed that one or two people were milling around. A teenager rode past on a skateboard and threw a fifty-pence at the guitar-case, but it missed. 
 
 The guitar-work was quite tricky for a Beatles song, and I'd imagined that he'd have some difficulty with it. Not a note was missed, however. He sang it beautifully too, which irritated me. 
 
 `` They say that he wrote this one about racism in the states.'' Greg explained. His bizarre behaviour had largely subsided, which I found odd, as a small crowd had now gathered. He'd made at least a fiver from this little planned impromptu. Calculating it in my head, I realized that hour-by-hour he'd earned almost as much as I do. `` I saw a bit o' that back in the eighties, my band were touring Topeka in Kansas at the time, and - `` 
 
 `` *PLAY'HELP'! *'' A group of teenage girls shouted from across the street. Greg ignored them. 
 
 `` You ever been to the states?'' 
 
 `` No Greg, I do n't really enjoy the culture, to be honest. Britain's basically just a compact and nicer version, is n't it? Kind of like how Brighton is to London. Yeah, so let's have, ahh...'A Day In The Life'?'' I hoped I would n't actually have to give him my money. I looked around, there was a crowd. 
 
 The song was basic, the various instrumental parts crudely improvised. It was clear that he had n't had much practise with this one, and some of it felt a bit ad-libbed. It crossed my mind to call him out on this one, but he'd tried, bless him. 
 
 `` Oi mate, thought you could do with this.'' A man in a Nike jacket handed Greg a Big Mac. At first, the older man tried to refuse, but his protestations were just met with `` Well, I've bought it now, have n't I!?'' The congealed'meat' slop had been devoured before the man in the jacket had even turned the corner. 
 
 `` There's comfort food, and then there's... well, when you have n't eaten since tuesday, you learn to savour the little things. Or in this case, the big things.'' A woman in the crowd laughed, I cringed. `` Hopefully wo n't be too hard up for food if I nail this next one, eh?'' Greg smiled. 
 
 `` Definitely, just give us all a rendition of'Revolution # 9', and it's all yours. Hell, I'll even double it.'' You ca n't just expect money to be thrown at you for strumming a few chords on a street-corner, I'd struggled through a *philosopy degree* at uni to make just above minimum wage. Greg's face dropped. 
 
 `` Yeah, can you... ah, remind me the lyrics for that one, son?'' He strummed a few dissonant sounding minor chords on the guitar, feeling it out. 
 
 `` That was n't the deal!'' He was trying to cheat, just like I knew he would. A man behind me tutted. `` Sorry Greg, you've been absolutely wonderful so far, but I ca n't just bend the rules. We agreed.'' 
 
 `` Give him the fucking money you cunt!'' A middle aged woman screamed at me. 
 
 `` He has n't even *played* a fifth song, yet. You want me to give him forty quid for twenty minutes work? I think you can see that you're being a tad unreason - `` A girl from the crowd pushed me. Several people were shouting now, this is why you should never try to do a good deed. A large balding man strode up to me, *wrenched the money out of my hand*, and threw it into Greg's guitar-case. 
 
 `` Has this little shit-fuck been abusing the homeless?'' Another voice, the crowd's so thick that I ca n't even see the perpetrator. 
 
 `` He's stealing money from him, the fucking cunt-headed *FUCK*!'' At this point, I'm certain that momentarily I am to be torn to pieces by the collective lowest-common-denominator, and I curl into the fetal position. A mother wheeling a pink-plastic buggy spits on me, and I see a group of head-shorn chavs moving towards me, a glint in the sun that can only be a knife. I stare around panicked, searching for the grizzled raconteur that owed me ( I had listened to him, after all ) protection, but Greg was long gone. Agonizing brutality was moments away, all at the hands of the general public. 
 
 Deus Ex Machina is an abhorrent literary device, and I distinctly remember reading Stephen King's'The Stand' and knowing that I could have ended it in a much more satisfying and, let's be honest, coherent way. Nonetheless, the community-support officer that broke up the petty rabble positively *gleamed* in the sunlight. When had the rain cleared? Adrenaline had blurred the edges of my memory. This veritable white-knight had saved me, saved what was left of my dignity, perhaps even my life. Yes, after telling her that I'd certainly have to file a report ( she said that community support officers could n't do that, I'd have to go into the station ), I made my way to the bus-stop secure in the knowledge that the state is indeed a pure bastion of protective healing light. Waiting for the bus was made all the more awkward by the mother that had recently rained down saliva on me, only breaking the death-stare when she got on the bus before mine. Realistically, I doubt I'll ever give money to the homeless again. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *Sorry about the length! First time writing anything fiction for a few years, it may be awful, that's okay, I understand. If you read it all the way through, hallowed be thy name. * 

