Wednesday, February 24, 2010

55. The hungry mile

His feet were aching as they slammed down on the unrelenting concrete pavement. He had one more interview to confirm. It had been a long day since stepping off the 8:55 from Grafton onto Platform 1, his list scrunched into his top pocket, his mum’s sandwiches already in his belly.

With unsteady hands, he patted the wallet in his hip pocket, as with dozens of others, he waited for the lights on the corner of George and Bathurst. How this many people could live in a place like this baffled him. People standing in queues, their eyes glazed, their brain in neutral. The noise, the slow forward shuffle, the grime and the constant danger to life and limb had put the wind up him immediately. He had lost count of the gutters he had tripped over, negotiating the city streets.

He punched the number into the mobile, and waited impatiently.


Vicki said...

You’re obviously a great observer of people, Julie.

”…he patted the wallet in his hip pocket…” says so much.

Joan Elizabeth said...

"He punched the number" says it for me.

diane said...

He'd be better off staying in Grafton.