A Tramp’s Regret

There was no lowlier vagabond than Henry Carton. About fifty, he’d been on the tramp trail for nigh on seven years; the classic routes, drink and gambling, having led him to his ruinous state. He was one of quite a few bereft souls of no fixed abode who existed in the locality.

Henry slept nightly in a thick bush situated in an overgrown section of Saint Stephen’s Green—that beautiful city park. For the past year, this vagrant’s version of domesticity had been his home.

Tonight he’d retired early enough, around eight, and immediately began rolling from side to side trying to find comfort in the damp foliage—an impossible task which he knew was doomed from the start. A lack of money and a consequent lack of cider had him thus flustered and he sensed that going peacefully to the Land of Nod was a hopeless prospect.

Henry’s depression was grave. The old blankets, newspapers and cardboard of which his nest comprised had become smelly sodden piles over the weeks and sleeping upon them made him feel he was but one remove from the pit of no return.

Still, in these far from select surroundings, he went on seeking the balm of sleep to escape the destitution of his day; hoping ‘gainst hope to find repose on the sorry spot where he so mournfully lay.

The minutes ticked by. His alcohol cravings lessened a little. Trying to sleep was a time-passing exercise if nothing else. In Trampland one had a right royal plenitude of hours to kill.

As Henry rolled (he was by no means lolling) he reflected on life’s lottery and his own luckless ticket. He thought of a fellow tramp with whom he’d shared some Devil’s Crop in the Green that afternoon. The guy, just out of jail, kept praising the view of the sky whilst dancing around saying how beautiful everything looked. But Henry didn’t buy this “splendour of nature” crap. In his estimation, nature was cruel and cold and he possessed nothing in her scheme.

A party of young men came through the park, dressed to the nines, evidently heading out on the town. They spotted Henry who’d stood up to urinate and the buckos began laughing raucously at the unkempt man standing in the verge. One of their number, a particularly callous cur, hurled a rock in the tramp’s direction. To avoid the missile Henry dived into the undergrowth again as the young men moved along and their laughter faded on the evening air.

How can they be so cruel? thought Henry, if I was young again I’d give them a run for their money. Though, he concluded sadly, if I was young again I wouldn’t end up here.

And, with that thought, he closed his eyes, still hoping for sleep beneath the bleak sky.

© Brian Ahern 2011