© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2016
‘. . . people who love
downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone and sometimes jar their teeth
terribly against it.’ George Eliot, Adam
Bede
Jake Fleming, ever since
his twentieth birthday a few years ago, had always been very clear to himself
and others why he chose to be homeless. So he could read. All day, and most of
the night. Jake had become a serious bibliophile from the age of eight, after
his father had given him Crime and
Punishment to read. Jake’s father gave his only child the book when he
appeared to be bored, sitting on the couch after dinner and just staring into
space. Mr Fleming, Tony, had finished the book recently and it was still close
to hand.
‘Here you go, Jake,’ said Tony, dropping
a book in Jake’s lab. ‘You should read that. It’s a great book.’
Jake picked up the book and quickly leafed
through it.
‘But, Dad,’ said Jake. ‘It’s got no
pictures!’
Tony replied with a small, unexpected,
chuckle, and then said,
‘Don’t worry, Jake, when you’re older
you’ll be reading heaps of books with no pictures.’
Jake was impressed with the wisdom of this
last, and then naturally set about reading ‘heaps of books.’ The resultant
addiction became more concerning to his parents when he chose books over rent.
His parents found out accidentally that he was squatting, from a neighbour
who’d seen him routinely enter a large, old, abandoned house, in Redferne, in
dusty inner city Sydney. His father came to visit him, but Jake couldn’t be
budged. Spending the money he saved on rent mostly on books, giving up work to
read, was entirely rational in his own, Jake’s, particular case. He had, he
said, discovered the only thing that made him truly content, happy, and isn’t
the purpose of life to be happy? Tony left after a fruitless hour, but with
also a good amount of unadmitted respect for his son. When it really comes down
it, Jake had a good point; to be happy really is the meaning of life.
Sure, though, no-one could ever read
voraciously all the time, day and night, and Jake did take the odd day and
night off, where he drew, or wrote. For the past few months, though, since the
start of a warm 2016 spring, he had been doing so, instead of reading, in the
large, bare living room of his squat in Standmore, inner city Sydney. Instead
of reading he daydreamed smugly and idly filled his journal or sketchbook,
looking the while at all the busy bees heading off to the office. Or from the
office. Or back to the shop. Sometimes he was so content with his lot that he
seriously wondered if he was in fact God. After all, only God could have such
perfect inner peace.
But one day his Paradise was invaded. It
was still late spring, 2016, and Jake had just come home for the evening from
buying his daily meat from the deli at Jewell supermarket in nearby Newtown.
Along with his second bottle of vege juice and a raw carrot that was his dinner
for the day. He actually managed his food well (his only bill) buying from the
supermarket and greengrocers instead of buying takeaway. So, he was still
feeling well fed and marvellous when he arrived home and was surprised by the
front door to his squat being open. He was sure he closed it, he always made
sure.
Entering the large living room at the
front he instantly noticed his sketchbook and his journal were missing. So too
the handheld CD player with its attached speakers. Upstairs in his bedroom he
was also cleaned out, except for the books. Probably too many to carry away,
and anyway, they were mostly second hand. But his clothes, filthy as they were,
were stolen, his sleeping bag, his candles, CDs, incense, everything that made
his rough way of living bearable, and with a purpose, was stolen. But the worst
loss of all was the loss of his food store. His two shopping bags full of
tinned meats, tinned veges, and other long life food staples were gone. That
was the worst theft because he often reminisced about that store, or stared at
it fondly from his mattress on the floor, a guarantee that he would never be
completely hungry, that he could weather all calamities with those bags of
treasure. But now it was completely obliviated.
He re-entered the living room, feeling
exposed and vulnerable.
After a few minutes of blankly sitting in
his armchair he realised that he would have to replace his food store quickly.
He now fully realised he was completely on his own in the urban wilds so he’d
better rebuild his defences quickly. He would just have to go without buying
his daily books for a few days or so.
Unless he stole the books? After all,
they’d stolen from him, a thoroughly helpless and poor fellow citizen. And it
would only be for a few days, until he received his next unemployment welfare,
so the chances of getting caught would be very small. That realisation decided
him and he set about taking a shower (Jake’s euphemism for washing himself from
a bucket of cold water) to be as clean and inconspicuous as possible in his
thieving.
*
Jake was able to buy
books again, and completely refill his bags of treasure, four days later when
he received his unemployment welfare. The money he had had left before payday
went to replenishing, in part, his food bank. The daily books he needed were
surprisingly easy to steal, the bookseller not really expecting to be robbed
while he, Jake, simultaneously, with three books down his jeans front, bought
one or two cheap books. Mind you, Jake could have saved all of this hassle and
drama simply by joining Newtown Library, but he wanted to keep as many of his
books with him for as long as possible. He also soon made sure to be clean and
cleanly dressed, looking somewhat like an earnest artist. Stealing was in fact
so easy for him that he decided to continue stealing his books every day, and
maybe put aside the large money so saved in an interest bearing bank account.
It would indeed be certainly fantastic if he had this second pile of treasure,
living life as a very God.
Stealing was in fact too easy, choosing
secondhand bookshops around Sydney’s inner city, to the point where he became
sloppy, almost blasé and unconcerned whilst thieving, and was thus caught in
the act, three months into his new career. He had three books piled down the
front of his jeans but they tumbled out while he accepted change from a two
dollar purchase. There was no way he could reasonably explain himself so he
instantly offered to pay for the books and nevermore return to darken the
bookshop’s step. The bookseller was dubious, especially since Jake claimed to
have lost his ATM card and had to go to the bank to get out the money, but Jake
gave him his bare wallet with only his welfare ID and pleaded for just thirty
minutes to pay, and then everyone would be happy. The seller eventually agreed,
with Jake’s ID as surety. But it would be a strict thirty minutes of grace.
He had the money for the books, $48.50,
but it really did seem a shame to dip into his savings account for something
that really could be had for free. He already had a good several hundred,
almost a thousand, in his dedicated bank account, the monies saved in not
needing to buy books any more, but reducing it by any amount almost viscerally
hurt him. He still had fifteen minutes of grace left, was there any way to not
spend his money and not potentially be criminally charged? Not very likely,
especially since the shop had his name and address details.
He could always leave his squat, move to
another suburb? He would be virtually untraceable if he spent his welfare in
cash and kept more on the move. That might mean he’d occasionally have to sleep
in a park. Getting another ID may prove difficult too but apart from that he
should be able to continue on as before. In fact, he had everything to gain and
nothing to lose, considering the remote chances of being picked up again
elsewhere. Also, if he were to invest in some disguises he was bound to be
unidentifiable, and thus untraceable.
He had no trouble in finding another squat
in close by Camperdown and after several weeks of safety was not at all
expecting to be pulled over by the police. They said he had the same thin,
blonde dreadlocks of someone they were looking for and asked to see his ID. He
really should have bought those disguises. He told them he had no ID, and felt
his stomach sink when they asked for his wallet. He briefly considered saying
he had no wallet, but that would probably just give them an excuse to search
him, making the situation more hostile. His wallet had some of his government ID.
He had only replaced it so he could get concession travel. He handed it over
and was almost resigned to now being a criminal when they eventually charged
him and led him away.
His trial came up quickly and he was given
a six month good behaviour bond, considering that this was his first offence.
The magistrate, though, was clear in telling Jake that this was his only
chance, and that good behaviour meant finding stable housing and using his
welfare monies for what they were intended, in finding a job and being a
productive, healthy citizen. Jake accordingly promised to get his act together,
pointing out that he was grateful for the chance he’d been given. He was not
going to waste it. He was going to grow up and act more rational from now on.
Accordingly, it still being morning, he
headed into Kings Cross, in the heart of Sydney, to book a bed for the week at
Ulysses House, a homeless shelter for men. He got one of the last beds and by
the sixth day of his stay he had found a place in a boarding house in Redferne.
The rent took up most of his welfare but at least he was secured from
incarceration.
Six months later he’d had had enough. He’d
had enough of never having anything, having to eat thanks largely to charity,
and never having enough books, of most of his cash going on the rent. No, now
that his six months were up, he was going to go back to his squats and save
most of his money, while he helped himself to free books all over Sydney. He
would be much smarter this time, obviously needing some sort of disguise while
he went on his thieving rounds. And if he was caught again he’d pull that line
once more about paying for the books and never returning. The seller would be
sure to accept the deal, being a capitalist at heart, only interested in the
money. He would also be sure to pay this time around.
He left his boarding house exactly at
midnight the day his good behaviour bond expired. He had his books with him,
some clothes, and three wigs that he’d bought earlier in the day. Doubtlessly
he would need to refresh his disguise every so often but if he also stole his
food he could afford to maintain the different outfits. On the train away from
Redferne, to get off somewhere that seemed right, he wondered if he could use
the money he was sure to accumulate from saving most of his welfare in buying
some rare books. They’d be a real thrill to read. Something to think about.
~~~
If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD Fitzpatrick has also had a collection of short stories, Aberrant Selected, published by Waldorf Publishing, available on Amazon.
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