“And that is my answer, young man.” I looked at her, puzzled; I even convinced myself that she truly is mad, until the song My Way floated in the air like the hovering morning mist. It came from the old battered jukebox in the corner of the whitewashed walls of the diner. A smile spread on my face and I silently nodded, what she said had dissolved into my pores and settled in my mind.
That was how I began to understand life, a lady whom people looked at in disgust, a lady whom people insulted, a lady who on busy days and peak hours, wouldn’t even be spared a glance; what more sympathy. My conscience was in turmoil; how could a homeless person understand so much about life, how could she; who have never been out there calculating the stock prices or audited major companies know so much? The nights I had were then spent with her, each hour passed learning countless lessons of life. What amazed me was that she told her tale of virtues through the songs that were played on the battered jukebox; some of them were played millions of times yet each time, a new lesson is unveiled somewhat magically, it was as if fairy dust were raining down on us. I would just stare with my mouth hung open, listening tentatively to what she had to say and finally, after what seemed to be an endless road of enlightenment, we would say our goodbyes and go back to the life that saps out the very core of us.
The next morning, I woke up, got dressed and rushed to work; facing a huge pile of paperwork that never seem to diminish in thickness. I used to sigh; bemoaning my bad luck but still manage to finish up what had to be done in time to catch the last bus home but now… Now I look at the mountain of paper and ink and think: Is this what life means? To slave over something that nobody would look twice at and go home each day with an empty feeling in me? No! I refuse to believe that; what more after I have been enlightened by a homeless woman. Then the thought struck my mind as if Zeus himself lost his composure and went berserk. How cruel could life be, to leave a human being so intelligible, as precious as her to fend for herself on the streets and let these idiotic bunch of arrogant shallow humans to rule a country. It made me burn inside.
As usual I met her after the city itself has calmed down; when the fumes from the cars thinned and the depressed occupants get drunk alone in their living rooms. She was there as always, huddled in a corner with a thin piece of cloth failing at its job to keep her warm. At that moment anger filled my heart; how could God allow this to happen? Why? At that very moment, she looked directly to him and exhaled.
“My boy, you should never blame God for what is happening in this world. The fault lies in every single on of us here, including you and of course, me.”
“But you don’t belong here. Not on the streets. You belong there,” He pointed towards the skyscrapers that mocked the clouds, “You are the one that has every right to be there, governing the way we live.” Her eyelids drooped and suddenly she seemed so fragile, even the wind might cause her to shatter into a million tiny pieces. Then, a fragile woman she was no more, for her might returned to her and she cleared her throat.
“Tell me. Are you going to chat with me the whole day out here in the cold or are you going to treat me to a warm cup of instant coffee? Come on child, the jukebox’s tale has not been fully sung. You obviously have more questions and I have a feeling that the songs that are going to be played today will be able to help. Help me up.” I grinned at her statement and extended an arm so that she could pull herself up. We made our way past the ever-suspicious alley cats, up a few steps and into the warmth of the diner.
We sat down away from the wild teenagers and chatty waitresses and made ourselves comfortable. When the staff understood that the only thing we wanted were cups of coffee as long as we were there, he raised an eyebrow discreetly, shook his head and walked away; the sole of his old sneakers making a scratching sound due to the sand attached to it. We sipped our coffee and then there was a pause; as if the world had stopped revolving for a few seconds in acknowledgement of the little joys of life and then she broke the silence.
“So what would you like to ask me today? Come on now, don’t be shy.”
“I have been thinking…” I absentmindedly toyed with the greasy spoon left on the table, “How have you gained so much knowledge and yet, stop me if I offend you, you are a homeless person. A bum. It’s just outrageous when I think of it, surely you are able to find a job and get a roof over your head.” She laughed and shook her head as she would every time I asked her a question.
“How do you define a home my boy? You said I’m homeless but to me those streets are my halls, the garbage bins are my furniture and the stars above are my chandelier.” At that very moment, Motley Crue’s Home Sweet Home started playing from the old jukebox. I feel astonished every single time. “A home is what you want it to be, when you run away from one, it is not always as an act of anger or depression but sometimes we humans need to find some other place where we could be cosy. It may be a dilapidated motel room; it might be under a bridge or in my case, the streets. I love the feeling of just being there, there is so much to see, so much excitement. Everyday is an adventure, a new tale of conquest.”
“That… does make sense actually. Have you ever had a feeling of wanting something more? A better place?” Again she laughed.
“We are human. It is in our nature to improvise; to better ourselves in every way. However, sometimes; if we’re lucky, there will be a place that seems so heavenly that you’re heart will say: No! This is the place where I belong. And at that time, my boy, you will understand that at certain parts of our life, we could be satisfied with what we have. Again I stress, if one is lucky enough.”
“How about loneliness? Surely you get that?” There was a crashing sound. Some teenager was kicking the jukebox. Apparently, it wasn’t in working condition any longer. Then, after a moment, Elvis’s Are You Lonesome Tonight floated out of the speakers. I shuddered. Every single time. The songs seem to fit whatever the topic was. The woman just smiled and took a bite out of her bread.
“Yes, I do get lonely but then I look at the vast amounts of people who have loved ones right in front of their eyes; yet in their hearts they are lonelier than I am. It is written on their faces, it shines out from their eyes.”
The conversation continued and various topics were discussed. Of course, a fitting song for each of them was aired each time and I would shiver in excitement and fright. I looked at my watch. Only an hour had passed. The night was unusually long to night. I brushed the thought and focused my attention towards the woman, suggesting that we took a breather after the long conversations. It made me feel somewhat bad to let a woman of her age to entertain me for long periods of time. She agreed and after a while, a song that I loved was played.
“This is my favourite song. As a child, I would listen to it for hours and I won’t even feel bored. You know it?” I closed my eyes and waited for a reply. It came quite slowly, as if she herself was enjoying the music.
“Free Bird. Such an enlightening song. It represents so much.” She opened her eyes and fell silent. It did not occur to me that she expected me to explain. She raised her right eyebrow and tilted her head; a sign for me to go on.
“Whenever I hear this song, I could picture myself sprouting wings and flying away, not looking back at whatever it is behind me and just fly away to a destination that is not on a map. The song represents freedom that is achieved by leaving all that one attaches himself to in the world.” I took a deep breathe and exhaled audibly. It felt good to have said something that to me was very intelligible. However, I realised that she wore a veil of discontentment over her, an aura seem to envelope her. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong child. It is not my right to question your interpretation. However, the way you think is exactly like the common people nowadays. Do you not feel the sadness of the person that is being left behind in the song? Don’t you even feel the pain that the man who wants to be free feels? He needs to leave everything, everything behind! There is a price for freedom and in this song, he is determined enough to pay it off but still, his pain is very well stated in this song.” She sighed. I was dumbfounded. All that she said was true; it made all the sense in the world. How could I have not sensed it? It was repeated throughout the song. I felt disgusted with myself. I was… similar to all those people out there…
We went our separate ways then; I went back home to the comfort of my bed and she returned to the company of the alley cats. However I found myself visiting the woman much more after that, sometimes I would skip work just to gain what I thought was more valuable from her.
Approximately a month later, I went to see her. I searched the alleyways and behind the dumpsters; asked the ignorant public but to no avail. A voice screamed in me but I silenced it, there was no way she could leave without saying goodbye. I sprinted towards the diner to find it deserted. The empty chairs and polished tables added to the eerie atmosphere. I inched towards our usual seat, my heart raced and my throat dry. She wasn’t there. I collapsed, my body felt numb and my tears which had long been idle, flowed; branching anywhere it found a restriction and ultimately it fell onto the floor. She was gone. Just like a spore, she followed the wind to another foreign place; untraceable. I wept; the light of guidance was now gone and I’m stranded in darkness, all I could do was try to reason out why it happened but my efforts were futile. Then… the sound of a complex mechanism at work, a record is slotted into place. The battered jukebox. I rushed towards it and gripped the sides till my knuckles hurt.
“Come on! Tell me something! Please!” The answer? A familiar song. A very good one too. It starts with a continuous plucking of guitar strings, a sound of a man clearing his throat. Immediately the tears ceased to flow, instead I stepped back and closed my eyes, losing myself to the sound of Pink Floyd echoing throughout the diner, the streets outside and the stars or chandeliers. The song played and played until the jukebox ceased to function, a scratching sound followed by a crackling one and finally, an abrupt end.
Pedestrians and regular visitors of a diner frowned as they see a man huddled by a corner near it. Some were puzzled by the fact that it was now a man and no longer a woman. They stopped to ponder about it for awhile but they were disturbed by the expensive gadgets which they labelled as their life. He would just smile; he knew what it felt like being bound to those things. After all, he once was but now no longer. Some lucky ones had the privilege of being enlightened by a peculiar way, he explained life by showing photographs of what seemed normal to many but as he started to explain, they would see the images in such a beautiful manner that they understood what he was trying to say, it captivated them, enchanted them in a way. However, others marched on with their lives without ever noticing him. He never felt insulted at this, they were just preoccupied. The time will come for them to be enlightened; just as he once was by a woman and an old battered jukebox. So he waits, along with the alley cats as companions. He waits.
