Pretend-a-Friend

Money, man, it is a bitch,
The poor, they spoil it for the rich.
                                            -- nick cave

I was just leaving when he came up to me like he knew me or something, and flattered, I stayed. I mean I'm not saying he should have known me, it's just a lot of people know me, you know? So it wasn't entirely unexpected. He looked sort of familiar too, like the kind of person you pass in the street and then realise they sold you a pint of milk the day before. That kind of familiar. How's it going man, he said and stuck out his hand. I took it and shook it, Good, I replied, still grasping for that recognition as I ticked through a list of names in my head and none of them stuck. So I'm looking for some work, he tells me, you know, trying to keep busy and get off the streets, I mean it's the summer so it's ok for now but- And now this picture is starting to come into focus, and at last I know who he is, I know where I've seen him. He's one of the homeless outside the tube I pass each day, the homeless, the wasted, the down-and-outs and there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-eyes. I get uneasy, I look to the door, I plan my exit and try to sound upbeat; Well, I'm sure you'll crack it, I say and go to leave. Before you go, he says, can you spare some change? My heart sinks, I lose eye contact, and my voice goes to the back of my throat. I'm sorry, no, I say, and as I walk away the change in my pocket jangles louder and louder with each step. You can't save everyone I think, but then so does everyone else, and little by little it grows darker with each day.