Finally Free

Finally free and I left work late, starving. The blog I had read in that day was still in my head, so I headed to Martin Place. Cold and wintry, I saw a different Sydney where people were queuing in front of a van distributing free food. Will you dare? John, -my boss, - said when I told him I will get there in business dress.

I joined, noticing no one noticed me, even that red tie -too stiff around my neck- didn’t do much, so I didn’t bother to take it off.  Seventeen people were in front of me and soon after few in the back.

An old man was served, hardly visible, and his dog, a Labrador – older than him- lying down next to him. Dog’s tongue out, watering as watching the old man’s plate- steaming,- with a hope he would look at him, and share, but he didn’t. He was blind.

In front of me, a tall man standing, like the status of freedom, no music, or headset, not even a book to read, just looking straight and leaning a bit forward, waiting. His left foot was at least thirty centimetres in front of his right one. His hair was grey, mostly bald, cut unevenly and short. His entire attention was on the people being served. His head was turning to his left; slow but steady and when it couldn’t go any further, he would reset it to the centre, very fast, like in a circus, before continuing his game again.

As we progressed in the queue, his right foot overtook his left one, but soon after, the left did accelerate and stayed firm in front position, exactly where it was before, ready for the next challenge! His robotic moves were similar to Rob Williams play in Bicentennial Man, with a bit of action, stress and laughter.

What time is it? I asked him. He panicked, but after a while that felt an eternity, he kind of shouted time? And I nodded. He smiled and started to search in his pockets for something, till finally a very small mobile phone showed up in his big hand. Bet the phone is off, I thought and bet I was right. Nine, then after a pause, five three, said he. Another smile before I asked him how’s the food here? He said good, and after a pause with a hysteric tone that was loud, but not shout, Hilton food. No one cared for what he said, even the man in the van with an H logo didn’t.

The silence around was colder than the night, like we were all haunted in a camp of Gestapo. A young woman was served next with brown boots, reddish pants and a big old black leather bag. The tall man said she, my friend and I nodded again, like Noddy in Toy Town. He then said she, church too, and I got confused, then I felt thirsty, without any sign of drink. I couldn’t bother to look more and asked the tall man what about drink? He laughed, as he is the expert, his lips -very close to each other, - were a bit shaking or perhaps, he was trembling. His look mesmerised one day they give $7, is lunch, is breakfast, is, is ... is all. Diner here free. I, refugee, church money, no drink.  And he was saying the last words, fast and funny as end of a marathon, with a pitch as high as the end of Vivaldi's four seasons.

Queue moved forward. Now it was his turn to be served. My eyes stared at the heraldic building of Chanel 7.

Michael V