Jan 27, 2009
H&C line, morning
From the waist up, he’s on his way to work. Jacket, shirt in fashionable shade, tie an electrifying green. Hair three weeks past time for a cut and a shave which hasn’t yet happened, but we all have bad days.
From the waist down, however, it’s a different story.
Navy blue Adidas track training trousers, worn bobbly and thin at the thigh and with ragged threads hanging down where they have been chopped off above the ankle, revealing greyed towelling socks stuffed into paint-flecked black brogues, shabby at the back, but carefully shined at the toe.
It’s like his torso and his feet made an appointment, but forgot to tell his legs.
He chews his thumbnail, inspects, chews again, before rummaging in the suit pockets. Drawing out a matchbox, he studies it intently from both sides – there’s something written on the end in tiny blue scrawl – before sliding it open to reveal a metal cap from a bottle of Guinness and a tightly folded wad of paper, pinkish. He unfurls it carefully, smoothing out the creases, and it becomes clear that it’s a fifty pound note. He slides it into a leather wallet, produced from an inner pocket, and pats it back into its hiding place when he’s done.
The bottlecap stays out, tumbled magically and silently for two stops through rough fingers. He makes it casade, and vanish, then reappear, while his face gives nothing away.
As the train slows into the station, he mounts the cap onto the middle button of his suit with a deft twist, straightens his tie, smooths his tracky bottoms, and steps out into the day.
