Free Half Plus Seven by Dan Tyte Page A

in there? What fork in the road did they take that I didn’t? The one signposted depression, dependence, disease and deathly cold? But sometimes the signpost got spun around, Wile E Coyote style. Who knew where our decisions or indecision would lead? No one, really, but we could load the dice. It was probably time I stopped loading them in the dealer’s favour. Soon, anyway, sometime soon.
    One of the men, Sid, lived up to your usual trampy stereotypes. Wild beard? Check. Ragged clothes? Check. A stench of stale piss and a taste for industrial strength turpentine? Check. But from his red, flaky face shone two bright childlike eyes which looked like they viewed each new day with wonder. It was only unfortunate that each new day was full of the filth and fury of the fucked up streets. Not quite the first awakenings of life. Poor fella. I’d often fantasised that I’d make a hobo a cut above the average. No sitting in the rain for me. No sir. My days would be spent in the warm, safe haven of the city library, learning, questioning, bettering myself. None of this putting up with the cold and constant precipi-fucking-tation of this place. I’d be off on the railroad, travelling with the cargo, hiding in the washrooms, under seats, over mailbags, always moving, always searching, always getting closer to that better life. What this romantic, rolling-stone-gathers-no-moss vision of life on the road didn’t bank on was the high propensity of dangerous addiction. An addiction which was worn well into the faces of those who surrounded me. Sometimes one of the faces would linger on me for too long when I finished a tall tale of derring do on the battlefield, and the others were creased over laughing, lost in their mind’s eye or pulling hard on some much-needed nicotine. His face was the most ravaged of the bunch, and in a way the saddest. These dark eyes weren’t childlike, but knowing, insightful and accepting. They smiled sadly. They belonged to a man whose age was hard to fathom. They say the streets put years on you, a bit like with TV and pounds on the waistline, but without the ability to be shaken off by hiring a queer stylist with a penchant for vertical stripes. Regardless, he wasn’t a young man and his gaze told of a life that had known more than this; known warmth, hot food, self-respect, love even, whatever that means. But not now, not anymore. That was old news, better off boxed away somewhere. The key was in his stare. He gave me the heebie-jeebies.
    The balaclava was a voyeur’s best friend, allowing me to eavesdrop unmolested on the mundanities of the midday break. Jill on the phone to her husband calling Miles a cunt, me a cunt, him a cunt. Pete haggling energy suppliers. Miles speaking pidgin French to some no doubt knock-out broad. So far, so expected. On this particular day, Carol and Pete ambled in front of me and my drinking buddies on their way back from the coffee house. They were giving an airing to the topic du jour at Morgan & Schwarz: Christy.
    â€˜Well, I think she seems like a very responsible young lady,’ said Pete. ‘If a little risqué at time. I’m not sure the skirt she had on yesterday was entirely appropriate office wear.’
    â€˜She certainly adds a little colour,’ said Carol.
    â€˜Indeed,’ Pete said through a steaming latte. Pete didn’t usually spend money on boutique beverages, not when there was a kettle in the kitchen. He must have been feeling particularly frivolous today. This was unlike him. Perhaps he knew Carol had the latest gossip. He could be surprisingly perceptive at times.
    â€˜It’s a wonder she’s here at all,’ said Carol, ‘considering everything she’s been through.’ Pete stopped slurping and urged Carol to continue with a nod of the head. ‘I mean, bringing up her brother all on her own at such a young age and her dad leaving them and all that nasty business. Sounds like