The part of the city I work in is a rumble of different types of people, all living/thriving or simply surviving the harshness of life. The street that my library stands on is a particularly famous strip, full of delicious history. At nighttime it is a hub of fast cars crawling down the street, showing off their glitzy painted bodies, chrome wheels screaming of slippery sex and money. Young athletic boys beat up other young athletic boys in fast food joints, whilst their girlfriends throw up into the gutters outside. During the day it is the complex mix of high fashion, old money estates, and poverty stricken individuals. Some are living on the street and others are lucky enough to live in the flickering government housing blocks, their neon lights never quite on and never quite out. And in this particular area there is not much in between the high and the low.
Felicity* has swanned into work this morning at 10 past 11. And, as usual she has a wild air about her, a wind blown urgency that makes me smile. I have missed her. Incredibly thin, incredibly fast and incredibly hard to understand, she waves at me and starts her verbal gallop. Being prone to neurosis and having a speech impediment, I can usually only catch two or three words from every sentence. Felicity is a regular customer, and even on ‘felicity time’, she is early. Sharp, intelligent and over come with wrinkles (I’m not sure how old she is, although my guess would be between 60 and 180). Its as if, one day her skin just gave a deep sigh and caved in under the pressure of the world. But they are wonderful creases that run like untamed, twitching horses. Wild Brumbies galloping across the plains of her cheeks and jaw line. Her eyes are watery and alert, but hidden, folded deep into the hoods of her upper lids. Her fingers are tiny and slim, as is her entire emaciated frame.
Today she is back from her European holiday. Her wrist is covered in plaster and she is ranting about her wallet being stolen from right underneath her nose.
“Do you think I’ll get lonely by myself in the cold?” she asked me before she left.
Now she is back and waving her arm in the air like a prize. Fourteen little breaks she says three or four times.
Felicity is here for the free lunchtime movie. We will wheel the TV into the training room and give out hot cups of tea, putting out twenty chairs for the two or three that will actually show. (One of which only comes for the first five minutes to fill his pockets with free biscuits and teaspoons of sugar.) Today Felicity has come dressed in her best cocktail dress and is exactly three hours too early. She sits in front of the door and waits patiently whilst examining her wrist and occasionally looking up to meet my eyes.
”Fourteen little breaks” she says.
Everyday I see the same six or seven faces. Some of them interact with each other politely and others I’m sure, don’t know each other at all, probably not even realising that they are sharing the same public space every day. These patrons are, part of my family. And without sounding too sentimental, this building is their home.
At the moment I am reading a book called ‘cleaving’ by Julie Powel. She is talking about a herd of buffalo about to be slaughtered (“you read such random things” my partner S exclaimed the other night as I was explaining exactly what happens when you dissect a cow) but a particular quote of Julie’s stuck out to me. “A couple of guys start herding the buffalo into a chute at one end of the corral. The animals seem terribly nervous, but also terribly obedient. The biggest cause of panic for an individual buffalo appears to be being alone.” And as I get to work in the morning and the same five people are huddled outside the front gates obediently waiting for me to open up, I can’t help thinking that we as humans, are just the same.
*all names (except Julie Powel) have been changed to protect individuals privacy
Felicity* has swanned into work this morning at 10 past 11. And, as usual she has a wild air about her, a wind blown urgency that makes me smile. I have missed her. Incredibly thin, incredibly fast and incredibly hard to understand, she waves at me and starts her verbal gallop. Being prone to neurosis and having a speech impediment, I can usually only catch two or three words from every sentence. Felicity is a regular customer, and even on ‘felicity time’, she is early. Sharp, intelligent and over come with wrinkles (I’m not sure how old she is, although my guess would be between 60 and 180). Its as if, one day her skin just gave a deep sigh and caved in under the pressure of the world. But they are wonderful creases that run like untamed, twitching horses. Wild Brumbies galloping across the plains of her cheeks and jaw line. Her eyes are watery and alert, but hidden, folded deep into the hoods of her upper lids. Her fingers are tiny and slim, as is her entire emaciated frame.
Today she is back from her European holiday. Her wrist is covered in plaster and she is ranting about her wallet being stolen from right underneath her nose.
“Do you think I’ll get lonely by myself in the cold?” she asked me before she left.
Now she is back and waving her arm in the air like a prize. Fourteen little breaks she says three or four times.
Felicity is here for the free lunchtime movie. We will wheel the TV into the training room and give out hot cups of tea, putting out twenty chairs for the two or three that will actually show. (One of which only comes for the first five minutes to fill his pockets with free biscuits and teaspoons of sugar.) Today Felicity has come dressed in her best cocktail dress and is exactly three hours too early. She sits in front of the door and waits patiently whilst examining her wrist and occasionally looking up to meet my eyes.
”Fourteen little breaks” she says.
Everyday I see the same six or seven faces. Some of them interact with each other politely and others I’m sure, don’t know each other at all, probably not even realising that they are sharing the same public space every day. These patrons are, part of my family. And without sounding too sentimental, this building is their home.
At the moment I am reading a book called ‘cleaving’ by Julie Powel. She is talking about a herd of buffalo about to be slaughtered (“you read such random things” my partner S exclaimed the other night as I was explaining exactly what happens when you dissect a cow) but a particular quote of Julie’s stuck out to me. “A couple of guys start herding the buffalo into a chute at one end of the corral. The animals seem terribly nervous, but also terribly obedient. The biggest cause of panic for an individual buffalo appears to be being alone.” And as I get to work in the morning and the same five people are huddled outside the front gates obediently waiting for me to open up, I can’t help thinking that we as humans, are just the same.
*all names (except Julie Powel) have been changed to protect individuals privacy
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