The guy in my neighbourhood who sells brooms is named Journey. He rings my bell at least twice a week, carrying a selection of coloured brooms and dusters over his shoulder.
Sometimes I groan and mutter under my breath when I see him.
Often I think ‘Oh man dammit I am so not in the mood.’
But I always open up for him.
Sometimes I buy a broom even though I have many. Sometimes we trade a feather duster for a sandwich. Sometimes we just chat.
Journey is mostly always sober.
He is always hungry.
And he is also always honest.
Today, he told me, I do not want your sandwich. The last one didn’t have enough butter. Also, I would like some money. It’s the weekend and I want to buy a few beers.
I think I make fantastic sandwiches and god help anyone, especially Journey, who says otherwise, but I had anyway run out of bread and, he had said he wanted beer.
I kinda know I shouldn’t support his drinking, but – he didn’t lie to me. He’ll most likely buy a six pack, go to the park where I think he sleeps at night, drink, look at the moon, maybe sleep better than he usually does.
There is something about Journey that I am oddly envious of.
It is of course not the homelessness nor the hunger.
I think it is his name. I think it is in the roaming. The freedom.
Journey would not see it that way. I know that, of course.
But what is a journey? The definition is when you travel from one place to another, usually taking a long time, often with no planned end in sight.
We are all on a journey. Looking for something.
Sometimes we make our journeys very fucking complicated.
We do not have to.
Journey lives with a simplicity and an honesty that I admire.
I like that he can ask for something, anything, say what he wants as well as what he means.
There is no bullshit.
He is travelling his distance. I am learning to travel mine.
I’d like to make it as honest as I can.