Morning Mammie. Morning Madam. Good morning Gogo.
Hey, G’morning, I say, to each person who wanders by me.
It’s early on a Sunday. Melville. There are few people on the streets. It’s chilly but the sun is shining, the magnolias are in bloom, and there just a few empty beer bottles on the pavements.
I turn the corner and walk past Nuno’s, one of my local hang outs. The waitresses are outside, waiting for the owner to open up.
He’s always late. They are always on time. Or maybe they’re just early. They have a long way to travel.
Hey Violet, Morning Violet, Enjoy your coffee Violet.
I wave, I shout from the other side of the road, I say good morning. And I continue on my walk to De La Creme, to get my morning fix.
It’s a ritual. I’ve been known to do it in my pyjamas.
But I do wear nice pyjamas.
I see the old man dressed in blue. He’s the shouter of the neighbourhood. Unbalanced. Mad. A meth drinker. Wrinkled, scarred and always in trouble. He wanders the streets day and night. A lunatic.
Yet there he is, like clockwork, sweeping 7th Street. He sweeps, every morning, starting at 7 am. The shop owners pay him collectively.
It keeps him in meths. And warm.
I pretend I don’t see him. It’s complicated and I find it easier to pretend he isn’t there. I know, I know, it isn’t very nice of me.
I carry on. G’morning, hi, have a groovy Sunday.
There’s the homeless Ethiopian. He sits in the doorway of a charity shop. It may be where he sleeps too. The walls of the shop are pink. Today he’s wearing a pink shirt.
He blends in.
I always say good morning to him. He always gives me a filthy look. I think he too is slightly unbalanced.
Maybe I also am?
I wish I’d bought my camera. There’s a young woman leaning out a window. She’s wearing a magnificent brightly coloured African headdress. And there’s another woman coming out a doorway. She’s opening up, Bread and Roses Bistro, her dreadlocks flying in the wind.
It’s picture perfect.
I get my coffee. Resist the croissants. Have a chat with one of the locals about our kids and how we wish they’d eat more fruit. He buys six fresh out the oven almond croissants.
What the hell, I may as well buy one. Ugh, two. And a baguette.
I walk home, sipping my coffee. I admire the gorgeous clothing through the window of the vintage shop. I’m going to come back and try that little black dress on.
A neighbour stops and gives me a few avocados off her tree. They’re fat and ripe. I promise to drop granadillas off at her later. We talk about the neighbourhood. Our community.
The streets are getting busier now. Cyclists, joggers and a few early morning moms with their babes. The newspaper sellers are out and the car guards have taken up position.
The last person I see before I turn on to my road is Joe. You can tell he was once a good looking man. He has piercing blue eyes, steel grey hair, and a great tan. He’s tanned because he too lives on the streets. I always hear stories about him. He was a writer. A poet. An academic.
Something about Joe has always made me uncomfortable. I don’t know what it is. I think because he could be me. I could be him. He could be any of us.
I usually avoid his stare. This morning I chose not to. I looked him in the eye and said Hi.
He looked at me and lifted one hand to his head. A bit like a salute. Then both hands, palms out, in front of him. One hand towards me, before both hands coming together.
It was a greeting. Sign language.
Sign language for Hello, What is your name?
Oh my gosh.
Hello.
I had no idea Joe was deaf.
I’m not even sure if his name is Joe.
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