The Homeless Man and Chocolate Mike.

The actual air was frozen, I mean it, it was like smoothly gliding through deep sea water, walking to my bus stop after work. Even with the white fur of my scarf sticking to my lips as it enveloped three quarters of my face, my breath still broke through the material in a thick white mist before me.
Nearing two AM bore it's usual nonsense of a typical Saturday night, lairy-ness and lack of clothing. Work had been unkind this evening, as had most of those I had worked with, and I was more than anxious to be arriving home to a warm bed and two snuggling cats.
I sidestepped those too drunk to realise their staggering, and shivered inwardly at the women still donning Primark mini's when actual snow was visible on the cars around us (Snow that had been defaced with rude markings by said drunkards). One women passing by me split hands with her boyfriend on the road, singing about a Microphone with a derranged look on her face, she reached out to grab the 4ft black stemmed, white material rose I was clutching.
I slanted out of her grip and that moment was forever lost to her.
The gift to my loosely termed wife, for her most recent birthday, safe still, and the bus stop nearing sight.
And amidst all the trend setters, cold women and drunken speech, a small heap stood out to me.
A man, legs curled to his chest, an old withered looking winters hat cupping his head in a rejecting way, sat quietly in the doorway of a bank. Later to be described as ironic.
He didn't openly ask for change, like any other homeless man may (in a thick scottish accent, perhaps), but he sat, with kind eyes and a sad mouth. His attire, all in the dark of 2am, seemed rather colourless. Dark blues, dark greys, not necasarily black but they all blurred into just that. And yet his eyes, downward they were, but they seemed so blue. Even in the light I was given to view him.
I imagined he was an attractive man, should he be allowed a suit, a good scrub and a clean shave. I feared his eyes were frozen, so cold was this night. I passed him by slowly, his eyes went up on me for a moment, a moment in which I broke my own gaze, but smiled with a mouth revealed to the cold for his sake, and then I stopped.
I gripped at my belongings, and I gazed toward my bus stop. I looked back, but he was out of sight in that curved doorway, only his small silver tray with around three little coins within sat feebly in my view. I had already passed, I did not have to go back, my warm bus already sat at it's stop, waiting to ferry me home with a small charge of having to sit amongst said drunken 2am people and the smell of subway sandwiches.

His eyes glanced upward to me as I stood before him, I noticed only now that he had a rucksack beside him, propping up against him safely. His poessessions?
"Could you spare any change?" He barely spoke the words, but his voice was dully calm, sweetly calm. If he had a hot drink in him, he would be a well spoken man, a man to which a conversation with would be wonderful, whether he had much to say or not.
"I don't have any change" I lied, "But, I'd like you to have this"
My voice didn't sound like my own, just as it never usually does when I lie, but I felt him having my rose was much more important, and whilst I lie here writing with the urge of buying the man a suit, and a coffee or a cookie from subway, handing him the 4ft, black stemmed, white material rose warms me.
His eyes did not light up, but the kindness from them could barely thank me, and I'm not even sure he did, but his smile (to which I cannot remember if teeth were missing, or if my memory is biased) gives me more than I needed, and I barely said another word before leaving.
I never look back, I only saw him tuck the large stemmed rose into the side of his rucksack, and hope to the festive seasons spirit, that he does not sell the rose for alcohol, or trade it in for a drugs.


The bus held a usual scent of subway and takeaway pizza, although it being slightly earlier than the buses I would usually board, the crowd was less and the people at their appropriate limit for alcohol, unlike the 3am bus, of which would be filled, not doubt, with alcohol poisoning.
A man was told by my usual driver that it was much more his worth than getting a taxi all the way back, and he approached us sat toward the rear of the bus with a 'Hello' to where we were all headed, marking the name of destination, ironically, as 'sunny'. He sat before me, the seats slightly lower than my own, sideways, so he was comfortably in talking range with me. He attempted conversation with most, and I smiled at him, though secretly annoyed i may not be able to peacefully listen to my music on the way home as i normally would.

But he turned out to be a chocolate man. A chocolate man with a home in tenerefe, who used to drive mini cabs in London. He had a breaking Irish accent, and the ability to speak to almost any one and still have a genuine word to say.
He was happily sad that converstaion with modern dayers was broken if not dull, and every one seemed miserable. We shared our feeling, it seemed, and it was unusual for us both to actually find some one to speak to on the bus.

Chocolate Mike used to reguarly ferry the singer of the Pogues from his sisters home to the airport, way back when, and spoke of his wife not believing his knowing of a radio DJ, until said DJ bought them a bottle of champagne in a resturant. On ice of course. Only the best for the blue eyed Chocolate Man.
Chocolate Man gave in his slightly drunken, but perfectly tipsy worry, that all young people complain of being tired, when he himself travels out of the country at least six times a year, and can get by just fine on four hours sleep, when his wife (who doesnt' always accompany him abroad) needs at least 8 it would seem.
''My my...'' he said, ''If only I were five years younger!''
Chocolate Mike actually asked me about me, and yet spoke much of himself.
The journey was not long, but Chocolate Mike gave real conversation a delicious touch to what was almost a bad end to a night at work.
''You are so young!'' he exclaimed, although, for once, he did not mean it in a bad way. He was not judging me, nor making any assumptions. For once, to an older person, it was genuinely okay for me to be young.


~ These were delicious ramblings, all of true events and happenings that took place just tonight. SheBlinks tells no lies and means no harm should any thing mentioned relate to your own life or personal gains, and you should think yourself proud if you met The Homeless Man and Chocolate Mike.