reportage

I cheated and reworked an earlier entry for reportage homework. and to aid me in reaching post 100!!! here it is

Reportage

I walked home from work tired and sore, carrying my Tesco’s own brand shopping. The carrier bags clunk and bash together and off my legs. I walk quickly as it’s a cold night and the chill is working its was into me through my sweat stained t-shirt and thin jacket. People walk past just as briskly, looking like they have places to be and are in a hurry to be there. They stare straight ahead, never meeting each others eyes.

There are exceptions to this rule though, like those doing surveys or street work. I’m in for Oxfam twice over myself, once with a made up address. The Goranga people in particular are quite persistent. I keep seeing the same two everywhere, though never during winter. Maybe they migrate to warmer climates.

One is named Hano and is cross eyed behind his glasses. I don’t know the other’s name but she always has a green tartan bag on wheels, full of books. The kind old grannies all seem to have. She also always looks stoned, but maybe this is just part of enlightenment and achieving true happiness. She gave me a book once that I still have somewhere. People ignore them a lot but they seem harmless enough. Just say the mantra and they’re as happy as Harry Krishna.

The drone of the traffic fades to a dull murmur as I pass central station and head away from the city centre. There is a plush hotel, with large windows and stylish decor. I think it’s called the Ramada. Sometimes it has a red carpet leading in into it with people in dresses and suits smoking outside. It even has a door man on duty, who wears a plain kilt that looks more like a skirt for its own lack of tartan.

Immediately after this most of the buildings become drab and derelict and the streets become paved and cobbled with ancient chewing gum, as is the case with many streets in Glasgow. In the distance the Hilton and The Marriot stand tall and grim. Just beyond them and next to the motorway is my destination.

Halfway home a young girl approaches me and I stop walking. She looks about sixteen, but is dressed older. Tight clothes showing behind a thin cream jacket. She is slim to the point of being scrawny. I have an idea about what she’s going to say to me before she says it.
“Looking for business are ya?”
“Fraid not sorry" I say, having experienced this before. On this street in particular it’s happened 3 other times. Two of them were very old and very painted and looked very bored. The other one was surprisingly attractive, but a poverty stricken student can’t really entertain such notions.

She nods at my reply. It’s a pragmatic gesture. The word “business” seems quite fitting.
“Its murder trying to find business this early at night” she confides to me.
I nod back and try to look like I understand this incomprehensible notion. We chat and stand idly a few minutes. I make jokes as a way of being on common ground and she laughs. I start walking homeward again. She falls in step with me. I worry

Feeling foolish but doing so anyway I ask “You hungry?”
She nods and I go into my bag and pull out a banana. They’re cheap and I have a large bunch anyway.
She eats it right in front of me. The irony is not lost. I didn’t even need to pay to watch. She keeps the skin rather than immediately throwing it away and when we pass a bin she pops it in. Much later on I have the wry thought that if you are indeed working the streets, you probably want them to be lacking in refuse.

“Thanks” she says
“Well I got to go home now” I tell her
“See ya”
“Bye”
I walk away and she goes in the opposite direction. Looking back I see her slowly disappear from view around the corner. Despite walking down this street pretty much everyday I don’t see her again.

I cross the motorway, dodging traffic and arrive home, located on the very appropriately named Cheapside Street.