The Grass Beds are Home

I am pretty sure you see people sprawling in sidewalks all the time, especially in this country. Almost every street has its fair share of inhabitants, feeding off random garbage strewn all over unkempt concrete and holding out empty tin cans calling for spare change. They wear makeshift couture—probably the trend in their conjured universe, but is nonetheless as appalling as the food they have no other choice than to live with. In the advent of summer, they take off the dark-colored garbage bags they substitute for polyester jackets and cashmere coats, and settle for the breezy pieces of filthy cloth that look like rags the people in my place would use to wipe off unwanted spots the spring breeze brings to the windows.

They have it harder, I think, than the boy I always find sitting on the grass beds of my neighbor. I call him Bob because I haven’t tried talking to him, nor do I plan on doing so. I’m not a big politician in my place. In fact, I have never really tried going outside my house unless I had to go somewhere. The people in my neighborhood are years older than me and they have unreceptive faces that tell you off even without having their mouths get all over the place. My life at home is essentially sedentary, but I’m in quite an uplifted mood today, so I saunter towards the terrace where I have a rather decent view of the street.

Bob is sitting on his usual spot. He has his head bowed down, hands supporting it, and his knees are bent so his elbows can rest upon them. I plug in my earphones, figuring some music will keep my mind off certain things, and start fidgeting with the cable. The song playing is starting to tick me off somehow, so I hastily pull the earpiece off and let the cable dangle on the coffee table in front me.

I stare at Bob. I know him, for sure, because his mother did jobs around our house for a little while before going off to another city. For all I know, Bob lives alone, and I’m not even certain whether he actually has a house to live in or not. I hear he has younger siblings. A year ago, the youngest died of malaria. Before his mother left them, they say Bob and his siblings squatted near a riverbank. The government tried to make itself look good by driving the squatters out of their homes but it hasn’t made much of a change, has it? The folks only searched for another place to cramp themselves in, and by the looks of it, the riverbank will not be cleaned up anytime soon.

I realize I have spent almost half an hour mulling over this and all along I was staring at Bob. It is dark already, the sun having set and all, and light from the lampposts is making a lovely play of color on the rain-painted asphalt. Two kids ride by on a bicycle. Their laughter is almost annoying, breaking up the silence I have come to appreciate after all these minutes. They pass by Bob’s spot and throw him something I make out as a crumpled junk food pack. The object jumps off his head but he doesn’t stir. What is he thinking of—his mother, probably, or his dead sister?

For a moment I feel sick. Those kids are annoying the hell out of me.

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A/N : This is a short story of some sort; Bob is not a real person, nor am I the narrator here. I did not file this under my blog posts because this isn't a real event. Any resemblance to a person, place, thing or whatever is purely coincidental.