21F – Handouts

It’s cold, it’s damn cold and my toes are curling into themselves and I’m walking right on my toenails, grabbing my sock edges around for warmth. But it doesn’t do any good. There are too many chinks in my armour, where sleeve meets pocket, where neck meets collar, too many places for the cold to get in. I just have to keep moving, keep the blood pumping. I like to hear it in my ears, even if it means braving the cold. Tells me I’m alive.

I keep my feet crunching into the pavement. I’m almost at the station. I can see the stairs that lead down to the arcade, the subway, the comfort of the underground. I step faster, clearing the last few paces before the entrance.

And then one of them is standing in front of me.

I’m a little embarrassed. Normally I’m a pro at dodging these guys, stepping neatly out of the way of their outstretched hands, their plastic wrapped magazines. My favourite move is a lateral side step to the left and behind a fellow commuter – let them get trapped while I slide away unhindered.

Not this time.

He must have been hiding behind the newspaper stand. He steps in, blocking the entry to the stairwell, and he turns and looks at me. Well, as much as these guys can look, if you know what I mean. He’s standing there, not exactly in rags, but his clothes are starting to blend into his body, so that skin, hair and fibre seem to be gradually becoming an unwholesome whole. I pull my nostrils back too late as the odour hits me, prickly and more than a little offensive.

I hate these guys.

He reaches forwards to offer me a free magazine, hygienically wrapped in a plastic film. I look at the publication in his hands – there’s some kind of residue between his fingers and the plastic – a thin, transparent membrane that keeps the cleavage of some famous type safe from some unidentified gelatinous substance.

I’m not taking the magazine.

A grey lip curls back from some yellow non-teeth, and he groans slowly, a tired, breathy sound. He pushes his unwanted gift forward again.

You’d take it, wouldn’t you? You’re one of those people who says, well, at least he’s doing something useful. At least he has a legitimate place in society. Well, you know what I think? Find something else for them to do. Something out of the way. Everyone felt sorry for them and now they’re everywhere, handing out magazines, waving around signs so they get noticed, giving away tissue packets… They’re inescapable. They’re everywhere.

And so you’ll meekly take their offering, wont you? Because you’re supposed to. Maybe you give them a nod and a smile, maybe you make a quick grab and keep walking. And then, first chance you get, the magazines are discarded. You throw them on the pile and jam your gloved hands back in your coat pockets. No one really wants to touch the plastic any longer than they have to.

But everyone acts like we all get along fine.

I take a short step to the left, look for a way past. The magazine somehow remains in front of me. He pushes the publication inches away from my nose, and groans again, and the groan ends in a higher pitch, almost like a question.

No, I don’t want your damn magazine. Okay? I’m sorry you’re dead, and it sounds like a really bad deal, but it’s got nothing to do with me, and me taking your surely fine publication it isn’t going to change too much of anything.

There’s nothing for it – he’s blocking the way. I push roughly into him, careful not to contact any bare skin. I’ve got gloves on, but still – he’s decomposing, right? Surprised, he slides off to one side with what I guess is an expression of alarm, or something, and I tumble my way down the stairs.

Look, I’ve got nothing against the undead. I just don’t want the magazine.

At the bottom of the stairs the tunnel opens up into an old shopping arcade, all tiles and metal grilles. I take a few clattering steps forwards.

There’s another groan. I look back up the stairs and he’s following me. They don’t normally come down this far, I mean there’s no law against it, but its like an unwritten rule, it’s not their turf. I watch him awkwardly hobbling down the stairs, still holding out his magazine, gurgling with the effort.

I start to walk faster. I start to panic.

I hear him pick up his pace as well. No, more than that – he’s running, a grotesque half shuffle, sliding across the tiles, really moving. I break into a run, but he’s already right behind me, and he lets out a cry, not a groan, more of a twisted yell, and his hands are on my back, and he pushes and I’m on the ground.

I look up. He’s standing above me and suddenly he looks huge, massive. He leans down towards me, stares at me with those dead, yellowed eyes. He reaches up a hand, and I shrink away, flinch, shut my eyes.

He roughly shoves the magazine into my hand. And then he slowly shuffles away, leaving me curled up against the tunnel wall, amidst a pile of discarded magazines, holding a crumpled starlet wrapped in plastic.