Ofttimes, you encounter people with whom you cannot exchange a single word and hardly even share an intelligible gesture with each other. Nonetheless, as if an invisible flow of some uncanny energy conveys ineffable meaning between you, such people may sometimes earn a prominent position in the realm of your memories. One of those people was that homeless guy I once bumped into in Saigon.
In a narrow, dirty alley in one of the countless neighborhoods of this vast and chaotic Vietnamese city, there was a cheap hostel I once spent some ten days of my life. There is something unique about the people you commonly see in an alley. Unlike any ordinary street, an alley does not lead anywhere. Thus you know that almost all the people you see there are there because that’s precisely where they want to be. They must have a definite reason for being present. Rarely is anyone there by chance.
Out of all the same different people I kept seeing walking in and out of that alley, there was that one man who particularly attracted my attention. Like everybody else, he had his reason for being there. And like many others, his reason was that there was him home. But unlike all the rest, his home was there solely because he decided so. He was one of those folks who have the liberty to freely choose where home is. He was one of those people we call homeless.
The man was following a strict schedule. He would every day appear at the alley entrance by late afternoon. He would slowly yet steadily advance to the inner part, carrying a rather huge canvas sack, supporting it with both hands over his shoulder. I did not get to know of the sack’s contents, as I never saw him open it. But I doubt it could have been clothes, as I never saw him wearing anything other than the same, once-white-but-now-grey briefs.
In a ritualistic manner, he would then gingerly place the sack on the exact same spot, next to a cluster of rubbish bins and a pile of some more of his stuff that he always kept there, and he would take a guardian-like post, sitting cross-legged on the pavement with his back leaning against the wall.
Judging the sack by its size, I doubt it could have weighed less than 20 kg. He did not seem to toil much in order to carry it, however. And that was especially impressive because he could not have weighed more than 30 kg himself.
The guy’s build was somewhat scanty. It seemed like heredity had altogether omitted to add the related to muscles and fat piece of code in his DNA. And what remained was a skeleton wrapped with a condom-tight layer of skin.
He seemed to be lacking appetite, or maybe the sensation of hunger altogether. He always had plenty of food, which some of the alley’s residents provided, but he wouldn’t make much use of it. Not because he wasn’t eating, but because he was a rather slow eater. He would always hold a bun in his hand, which he would be munching over many hours, chewing every bit as if going through an inner moral struggle before he managed to swallow it.
Besides the imperceptible chewing motion of his jaw and the periodical lifting of his hand to his mouth, the only other parts of his body moving were his neck and eyes. They were constantly scanning the alley, registering every person who entered. And they were getting intently fixed to some one of them when traffic was low.
As I often happened to be out on the balcony, right opposite his position, late at night – doing people-watching meditation, just like him pretty much – our gazes met each other regularly. It was through those long confrontations of our eyes that I got to understand he was living in some deep trance, somewhere far away from the material world.
He gave me the impression that his vision could only detect people and cats, all non-living matter being but a blank background to him. He seemed genuinely happy for as long as any legged objects were within sight, staring at them with a contented smile that contorted whatever muscles his face had.
His contentment would gradually recede as traffic got sparser. And by the time we’d end up with our gazes fixed at each other – the two of us being the only ones out in the alley – I could discern in him a terror of impending darkness.
I tried to communicate with him from across the narrow street via words, gestures, and nods. But he couldn’t make the slightest meaning out of them. He would, though, every time, no matter what my signal, respond with an outburst of joyous laughter and words, gestures, and nods of his own – from which nor could I derive any meaning.
Then, as my expression went flat again, fear returned in his mien. I suspect he could not perceive me or anyone else as ones of his own kind. Maybe his own physical substance was, too, a part of an enveloping vacuum. Perhaps he could only see scattered legged objects roaming through a blank, two-dimensional space, which he observed from some other, outer dimensions where there was only still blackness.
That’s pretty much how the man passed his evenings, immersed in an abysmal trance. He would always sit on the exact same spot, in the exact same pose, tormentingly slowly nibbling a piece of bread, and meticulously scanning the alley with his gaze for people or cats who’d give him a good laugh.
After there were no people or cats left to keep him entertained, he’d end up supine in front of his sack, under a rough, dirty blanket, sleeping soundly and smilingly.
In the mornings, now, he seemed quite a different person: more of a person in the sense of a person who is aware of being a person. He would nimbly fold his blanket and place it back onto his stuff pile. Then he would spend some time sauntering around the alley and exchanging merry salutations with some of the residents. And finally, just before the shop – in front of whose entrance his home was – was about to open, he would shoulder his sack and make for the maze-like city.
What he might have been doing there, I do not know. But I can well imagine him wandering around planlessly until the shop closed again in the afternoon, when he could return home and indulge in his peculiar meditation process.
The story you've just read is a part of my "Real Stories of Real People" collection, wherein I narrate my encounters with various remarkable characters I've run into while traveling around the world. The entire collection is published on my blog and may be read here. But if you'd like to get them with you to the beach in your ebook reader or as a physical book, and very appreciatedly support my creative activity, go ahead and grab your copy from Amazon for the cost of a cup of coffee.
