One of the Invisibles  

By
Paul Golden

He was there as usual, sitting on his winter bench just inside the square. I noticed over the years he had different favourite spots depending on the season. Late spring and summer would find him lying on the lush grass in the centre of the square soaking up the warm sunlight, late autumn and early winter found him in the north east corner taking shelter seated under the last of the thick overhead foliage from the London Plane, and for the remainder of winter and early spring he was there on the south east corner seated to the side close to the southern exit from which he emerged each day onto Tavistock Place – the busy main thoroughfare for this part of Bloomsbury.

It was difficult to tell how old he was, covered in so many layers of clothes which were either worn or tied around some part of his body depending on the weather. Difficult to tell what his physical attributes were hidden beneath these layers. He wore a Russian type cap with flapping ear covers and depending on the weather covered by another hooded jacket. No large bags to accompany him, he wore his world. His face was hidden by a wiry unkempt black beard – the colour the only true indication of his youth.

He never walked around the square, simply walked in, at a gentle pace, moved to his allotted space and remained there until he left. He never stood up, never stretched, never glanced around with curious eyes, as though movement would shatter his invisible protection.

On occasions I noticed when he was sitting on a bench he would wind invisibles cords around his head over and over again – at first I had assumed he was waving away a bee or something – but over the months I noticed this was some other repetitive ceremony. Invisible circles wound for 4 minutes, rest for 10 minutes and start again.

There was nothing distinguishable about the clothes – layers of browns, greying-navies and greys aged and dirtied by years of this lifestyle. He was one of the many we never notice, he never intruded on our hussle-bussle lives, just sat there to the side invisible as we walked-by. Only noticeable when we passed-by too closely and caught the odour of years of deserted hopelessness, but with the passage of footsteps he dissolved again.

He sat here as he always did, looking into the square past the leafless copper beach. His eyes followed a little boy bringing a newly plucked early crocus to his mother, perhaps triggering a distant memory. His face expressionless, eyes void of hope and future briefly watched the mother and son play together.

He walked toward the exit, about 5’ 10”, bulked up by the winter wear and uncountable layers now worn against the harsh wind, out to the busy road full of vehicles speeding-by. Standing there watching, but seemingly detached, he slowly looked to the right, there was large garbage truck gathering speed, he watched, vacant expression  and then the world noticed him again, once more, one last time…….