Figure

The figure behind the dumpster stirred.
He made his way to the park. He liked the park because he often thought how much it reminded him of home. Which was strange, because he had no memory of where that was. He found people were easier to remember than places. He passed a man opening a packet and lighting up. He didn’t bother asking. People don’t come up with cigarettes so easily anymore. He checked his pockets for money as he ambled. Found nothing. He remembered the day paper money was pressed into his hand by a complete stranger. People were funny.
He mused a lot.
The pizza shop across from the park smelled as good as ever. He crossed the road as quickly as he could, avoiding the smell. He would do his best to ignore his hunger. Two days ago he found chicken and chips in a cardboard container. There may even be a few chips left. He’d have to check.
He found a bench and had a lie down.
He pondered over the time some random guy had asked him how long he’d been living this life, and how he couldn’t tell him. The guy didn’t believe him. Seemed really disappointed. Tough! On that occasion he had turned and walked away quickly. In the main, other people didn’t bother him. Most of the time they ignored him; they saw that he was there, that he existed, but then, having summed him up, they ignored him. That was fine. He was ok with that.
He sat up.
A woman saw him scratching and glared. He thought nothing of it; went back to musing. He had a vague memory of owning a dog once. It must have been a long time ago. His stomach rumbled. He ignored it. He had half a cold hamburger yesterday; that should hold him. He would have to start begging again; money was running out. Not today though. Today was… what was today? Probably weekend; lots of kids about.
He walked on.
He realised he was rubbing his eyes a lot. His hands were pretty dirty. He should find somewhere to at least rinse them off. He remembered how his mother had lots of eye trouble. A kid went by holding three balloons. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever had a colour test. He wasn’t sure how good his eyes were. He decided that there was a lot of greyness around.
He could feel his body aching.
He sat down for a spell on a low wall. He tried holding his breath while he counted up to fifty, or towards fifty; he lost count and tried again. He did this twice; he finally gave up. He did a bit of panting, just for fun. He looked on as a teenager operated a small boat with a remote control. He stared at the ducks, gliding on the pond. He tried counting them and gave up. He thought about how he would never have a grave stone. Ever since he was a kid he’d wanted one. He pulled a twig off a bush and scratched some random marks in the flower bed.
He got up.
On his way back he tried to make a couple of philosophical points with a traffic warden. The attempt failed. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. He knew he did it from time to time, with perfect strangers. He didn’t know why. For him, the hours of the day pass quickly. He noticed that the town was starting to empty. He’d done the park and the pond and a couple of local streets. Pickings hadn’t been very good at the local bins.
With another day done, he went back to his spot behind the dumpster.
He was exhausted.