Homeless

He was sitting in the middle of the road again.  Cross legged, relaxed like he hadn't got a care in the world.  Carl glared at the monitor, as if somehow staring could change what it showed.  It didn't of course, the figure sat blissfully unaware of the cloud he was casting over Carl's morning.  Snorting in annoyance Carl looked at the clock display at the bottom of the screen. 08.46. Well the delivery truck would be arriving sometime before noon, he'd have to move then.  With one final glare at the figure Carl swung around on his chair and got to work.  Figures, this time of the numerical sort, swirling across the screen.  Amounts of money almost beyond comprehension represented by a few bright green symbols.  Depressingly little of that money actually belonging to him of course, but a few good days on the market could make all the difference. 

The next time Carl looked at the time display almost eight hours had passed.  He was good, he would cheerfully admit that.  But even with all his instincts and years of experience it had been all he could do to end the day even.  Enough to pay the mortgage and the bills, but precious little over.   Sighing he closed his account out for the day and swore with disbelief.  It hadn't registered as he checked the time, but yes. The man was still there. Cross legged in the middle of the road.  Carl leaned back in his chair, taking off his baseball cap and scratching the scraggy remains of his hair.  He stretched and unused muscles protested, locked into place. With a grunt he stood, waiting a moment for the pins and needles to fade from his legs and moved to the window.  He pushed the slats of the blind aside. Yes.  The man was still there.  Cross legged.  He seemed to be staring directly at Carl, though the tinting on the windows made it unlikely that the stranger could see in.  Still it made him feel uncomfortable, and for a man famously always in control that was a new and unpleasant feeling.

Growling Carl walked to the front door, then hesitated and returned to the mantelpiece, taking down the rifle that hung there.  It took a few moments to remember where he had left the ammunition.  The gun itself would probably be enough of an intimidation, but Carl never left anything to chance.  He glanced at himself in the mirror.  A svelte twenty stone.  Many of his other friends had let themselves go, unable to walk or even leave their chairs anymore.  Carl on the other hand prided himself on his appearance.  Every week he would walk to the end of the road and back, come rain or shine.  He and Jerry had made it three miles once, and he still believed, at the back of his mind, that he would be able to walk it again should the need ever arise.

He flung the door open and stepped onto the porch.  The man in the road looked up disturbed by the noise, then smiled cheerful, nodded at Carl and then disregarding his presence completely continued staring at the house.

"What you doing there?" Carl yelled.  Now he was closer the figure looked strange.  Bones, held together in a drab brown set of overalls.  The man turned to look at him. Focusing this time and given Carl the benefit of his full attention for a minute or two.   Then he smiled.

"You have a very nice house."

Carl nodded, pride overcoming his natural hostility towards the strange character.

"Painted it, and maintained it myself.  I own nearly 90% of it too."

"It's lovely.  That's why I'm sat here."

"What, you sit in the middle of roads admiring houses?"

"Oh no. Of course not." The man laughed. "That would be silly."  The man took on a more earnest expression. "No, I'm waiting for you to die."

Carl took a step back and aimed the rifle directly at the man's head.  There was no threatening move in return, if anything Carl's actions was causing the man even more amusement.

"What's your name?"

"Carl"

"Carl... right.  Tom.  Nice to meet you.  And you don't need the gun. I said I'm waiting for you to die. Not that I'm going to kill you."

This was not entirely reassuring.  Carl looked around but none of his neighbours were about. Doubtless a few were watching the situation on their monitors.  But as several of them were probably unable to physically help even should they want to, the chances of anyone coming to his aid seemed rather slim.  Aware that his legs were already tiring with the unaccustomed stress Carl walked to the porch seat. It hung on chains and usually Carl would rock gently, this time he kept his feet planted and the gun pointed squarely at Tom.

"Who are you Tom? Why me?"

"No reason you should know me. I've delivered your groceries, and everything else to your door for the last twenty years.  But why should you ever take the trouble to learn my name."

Carl thought.  Though the delivery trucks were distinctive, and he waited eagerly for their arrival the stranger was right.  If anything he had assumed the trucks were automated.  Some robot or other depositing neat piles of goods on the porch as and when requested.

"I've delivered to pretty much all of the houses in this neighbourhood.  Yours is the nicest so I thought I'd wait for you to die."

Carl snorted.  The man seemed completely mad.  Not even dangerous really.

"Well you can't have it. This house is mine."

"90% yours."

"Yeah, like you ever met anyone who fully owned their home."

The man shrugged and tilted his head as if conceding the point.

"But then I do know a lot of people who are homeless."

"Workshy layabouts." Carl snapped. A moment after the words came out he began to regret them, but the stranger did not seem to take any real offence.

"A matter of opinion. And we should find out whether it's true.  Trudy... sorry, she's a friend of mine you probably won't get to meet, Trudy thinks it will take days.  I reckon closer to a month, maybe two.  "

"Until what?"

"Until you start to die."

"Why would I die?"

"Oh, you'll figure it out soon enough." The man cocked his head to one side. "If it bothers you I can wait somewhere else.  This just seems quite a convenient spot."

"You'll have to move when the delivery truck comes."

Tom looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled condescendingly.

"It's not coming. I told you I'm the driver." in the tones you would use to explain something to a five year old.

"And I suppose there are no other drivers." scoffed Carl.

"There were.  Trudy of course and hundreds of others.  We decided to quit."

Carl's interest in the conversation was dropping rapidly, grunting he hoisted himself back to his feet and moved back to the door.

"You'll change your mind soon enough when you don't get paid." he yelled over his shoulder.  But the only reply was a gentle chuckle.

Trying not to show any alarm Carl logged back into his terminal, no notifications, no alerts.  Just a simple message from the delivery company apologising for a minor disruption and promising that his goods would be delivered the next day.  He snorted.  Serves him right being spooked by a solitary nutcase.  Still just to be on the safe side he ate a light supper and went to bed.  No sense in eating the food before it was delivered.

 

The next day dawned.  Deliberately Carl made no change to his routine, carefully shaving yesterday's stubble from his cheeks.  Showering and enjoying each moment of the hot water.  Waiting patiently by the kettle for his morning coffee.  But there was no pretending to himself and as he sipped the scalding hot liquid he turned on the exterior monitor.  The man was still there.  Grunting Carl stomped over to the rifle, still loaded from the previous day, and snatched it up.  He kicked open the front door and stopped.  What was he going to do. The man was just sitting there.

"Hello again."  Tom called out cheerfully, the sight of a gun toting man not causing him a moment of apprehension.

"Have you been here all night."

"Of course not. I went to get something to eat after you left.  Is the company still saying it's going to deliver tomorrow?  They lie a lot you know."

"Today."

"Oh.  I must remember not to get run over." a slight chuckle and then Tom closed his eyes apparently deciding the conversation was over.

Carl weighed up taking a shot anyway, but the man had done nothing illegal.  The indecision was uncharacteristic.  Not his style.  Carl shook his head and made up his mind, starting the trek to Jerry's house next door.  As he hauled his heft up the stairs to Jerry's porch he noticed peeling paint and a patch of damp.  He knew Jerry had had a bad run on the market lately, but it must have been worse than he thought if he was letting basic home repairs slide.  Carl shot a quick glance back at Tom, he appeared unmoved  but there was just a hint he had been watching Carl's progress through half closed eyes.  Raising a fist Carl pounded on Jerry's door and waited.  A few moments went by, then there was a heavy tread from inside. 

 Jerry peered out through a part closed door, then smiled and threw it open. 

"Carl! Nice to see you, you didn't have to come all this way though."

"Just getting in shape."

"Settle yourself on the porch, I'll go grab a couple of beers."

Jerry always had been more sociable than him, he even had a pair of hanging chairs though given the rarity of visitors it was more an affection than a practical need.  Still Carl slid gratefully into the nearest and waited. The house shuddering slightly as Jerry's footsteps approached.  He handed over a beer and settled on the second chair.

"Seen the guy in the road."

"Yep." Jerry pulled a beer from a pack of 12 dropping the rest between them. "Weird isn't he."

A crack and hiss as Jerry opened a beer and chugged half of it in one go.

"The girl in my back garden freaks me out more though."

"You have girls in your garden?  You old dog!"

"Just one. She sits in one of the trees.  Not as persistent as the guy in the road, she comes and goes."

"Talk to her?"

"Briefly. What she said was... odd."

"She was waiting for you to die?"

"That's it! Exactly.  Have you seen her too?"

"No it's just what Tom said to me."

"Tom being?"

"The guy on the road."

"Nutters. They should go get jobs."

"They did. Apparently they were delivery drivers."

"Oh." Jerry tossed back the rest of his beer and grabbed another. "You letting me drink alone today mate?"

Carl glanced absently at the still unopened beer in his hand.  Moisture still dripping off it where it had condensed in the sticky July air.

"Jerry.  When was the last delivery you had?"

There was a pause as Jerry frowned.  Staring up at the porch roof as though the answer might have been written in the wood, miraculously appearing across the peeling paint.

"Tuesday... yeah, Tuesday. Why."

"Tom said all the delivery drivers had quit.  No more deliveries."

"So this lot are workshy scroungers.  Plenty of people need the money. Others will take over." Jerry declared in a voice that spoke of boundless confidence

Carl sighed, sat back and opened the beer.  Much as he liked Jerry there were times that he could cheerfully throttle him.  The man would get an idea fixed in his head and then nothing, not manifest absurdity or the idea being completely wrong could change it.  When he took that tone his mind was made up. From past experience arguing would be a waste of breath.

 

Much later, slightly tipsy if truth be told, Carl took a detour on the way home.  He staggered over to where Tom was sat and inelegantly flopped down onto the road next to him.  Tom's eyebrow raised and for the first time he appeared slightly surprised.

"So, Jerry reckons as soon as you quit they lined up a hundred replacements for you. Why is he wrong?"

This close Carl could smell the rank sweat and unwashed clothes.  Could see the growing stubble on Tom's chin.  See the bloodshot traces and dark smudges under tired eyes.  This close he was no strange enigma, just a man.  Well, bag of bones, like any other.  There was a darker patch on the faded brown coveralls where some insignia had been removed, some stitches still remained. 

"It's not us.  The growers won't supply the delivery firms.  The manufacturers won't make goods.  The packers won't pack the boxes.  We just refuse to drive empty trucks."

"So everyone will starve?"

"Possibly. The growers still farm.  They just won't supply it to the delivery firms. Currently they are handing out food to anyone who goes to them." Tom stared at the sky. "I can't see how that's going to work for very long. But it may work for long enough."

"And the manufactures?"

"Are fed up making things for other people so they are taking what they make home.   Hmm. There's the makings of a barter system here."

"Ha.  The communist dialectic."

"The what?"

"Socialism, from each according to his ability to each a... something or other."

"Oh, that. Yes heard of that. Didn't work the last few times they tried it. So hopefully not." Tom looked at Carl, eye to eye. "It's not planned.  It's not an attempt at a, what was the old phrase... 'workers paradise' there's nothing more to it than a hope that nothing can be worse than what we have now."

"What's wrong with it?"

"From where you are.  Probably nothing. But not many people are in your position."

"What having a good job in finance. It just requires hard work.  I'm not going to apologise for that."

"No. Housed.  If you don't mind, I'd prefer to talk when you've sobered up.  The smell is, off-putting."

Taken aback Carl tried to stand, but his arms were not strong enough to force his bulk upwards.  He glared at Tom but instead of the smirk he was expecting was a look of pity that stung him to the core.  With that Carl growled, forcing himself to his feet more through shear anger than anything else and stomped back.  Far too quickly.  His vision starting to go red at the edges.  Black dots floating in front of his eyes.   He stayed upright through force of will as much as anything , slamming the door behind him in a rage and collapsing onto his bed gasping for air that would not seem to come.  As everything faded he could not say himself whether it was sleep or simple unconsciousness that claimed him in the end.

 

Carl awoke in the morning hung-over and angry.  Partly at letting himself drink so much as to wake up hung-over.  From past experience he knew better than to try and trade today.  The irritability and sore head would lead him to make too many mistakes and with margins as tight as they always were these days mistakes would cost him more than he could afford.  Muttering to himself he showered, feeling marginally better as the water washed away at least some of the sour reek of yesterday's excess.  With that done he went to the terminal, still no delivery, an apology for the failure to deliver the previous day and a promise that deficiencies would be made good the following day.  Assurances that he was becoming increasingly unwilling to believe.

Rather than head to the usual financial applications Carl started to study the news reports.  The odd mention of strike action, but nothing out of the ordinary.  No riots or unrest. Just a few strikes, yes the delivery firms but nothing about the farms or factories.  A quick check on the nearest agri-center, surprisingly close, a little over three miles each way.  Carl looked at his rifle and began to think.  How long would he need. Was it feasible.

 

Twenty minutes later he stepped out into the light. Tom was, as usual, sat crosslegged.  Carl waited until he looked up.

"You said food to anybody."

There was a moment as Tom thought, trying to get context.

"The farms."

"Oh. Yes. Currently."

"Good."

Looking confident, far more confident than he felt, Carl strode down the steps of the porch and began to walk to the end of the road.  Rifle slung over one shoulder, a faded blue knapsack over the other.  Almost instantly sweat beaded on his brow.  The harsh summer sun beating down. He should have brought a hat. But there was no way he was going to turn round and go and get one. Not with Tom watching.  The first flush of confidence took him to the end of the road. A moment's thought and then a right turn. The symbols on the map translating themselves slowly to the world around him.

He was halfway down the next road and beginning to wonder where he could sit down to catch his breath when he became aware of a sound behind him. He spun, and snatched at the rifle, dizzy at the sudden movement.  Tom froze, ten metres away and raised his hands.

"I wasn't sneaking up on you."

"Hard to believe from someone who wants me dead."

"I'm still quite happy to wait.  I was just curious how far you would get."

Carl growled and turned, the end of the street still seemed a long way off and his legs were already aching, though he knew from the map he had travelled less than half a mile so far.  But however he felt there was no way he would stop now.  Pride and anger giving him new strength.  He strode forward setting a fierce pace.  But Tom still shadowed him. Light footsteps echoing Carl's own. Keeping just a few steps behind.  As Carl reached the end of the street and turned he saw Tom, mild, expressionless. No sign that the walk was causing him any exertion at all. 

In contrast Carl was finding it hard to hear Tom's footsteps through the thudding of his heart, loud in his ears.  Swallowing his pride he leant against the nearest porch.  Marshalling his breathing.  Small spots in front of his eyes fading as his strength returned.  Another street, then a two mile country lane that would take him to the farm door.  He had been that far before. OK he had been younger, and a little lighter, but that had been for fun. This was more serious. He could do it.

The rests became more frequent and each step became harder.  Sweat poured down his back and his clothes were as wet as if he had showered wearing them.  Still Tom shadowed him, always a few paces behind, resting whenever Carl rested.  Though it was obvious that Tom had no need to stop.  If anything he seemed to be enjoying the walk.  Carl began to feel like he was trapped in a nightmare, on an endless road, even though intellectually he knew he had spent only a few dozen minutes walking, and maybe twice that resting.  It was with relief he saw the sign and driveway indicating that he had arrived.

The farm was not what he expected.  The gate was a reinforced metal barrier nearly 10 feet high. The fence, electrified and topped with spiked wire.  Inside mirrors reflected sunlight onto long low glass buildings, tinted windows hinting at the various crops growing inside.   The gate was open, a small girl with bright purple hair lounging against it.  She looked up as Carl painfully approached and whistled loudly.  Half a dozen other figures appeared, a couple with long staves that they lent on.  Another with a thick chain that looped around his fist and coiled at his shoulder.   Carl resisted the urge to reach for the rifle, showing none of the trepidation he felt.  A sense of impending violence hung over the scene but Carl did nothing.  He simply stood and waited for someone to speak.  Mostly as he was still too breathless to do so himself.

"Waddyawant?"  The purple haired girl finally broke the silence.

"Tom said you gave out food to anyone who asked."

"Yeah? And?"

"I'm anyone and I'm asking."

There was a ripple of laughter, but it was harsh and discordant.

"Looks like you ate it all already." One of the men with sticks, muttered, loudly enough for all to hear.

This time the laughter was louder, but no more pleasant.

"So do you give out food or not?" Carl kept his tone level.  Years of negotiating and business let him keep the trembling anger buried hidden inside.

The girl shrugged and glared at Tom as though the whole situation was his fault for some reason.  The men exchanged looks and seemed to relax a little, one finding a comfortable spot on the grass by the fence and settling down, as if to watch some sort of show.  Only the larger man with the chain still seemed openly hostile, the others curious - waiting to see how it played out.  Though both those with the staves kept a close grip on them.

"You said anyone I didn't." Tom's voice came from behind Carl and he resisted the urge to turn around.

"I didn't mean the parasites.  You think we should feed them all now."

"You didn't exclude them. And no you won't have to feed them all. I haven't seen anyone set foot off their own porch in the last twenty years.  Bar this one. Obviously."

"So what is he? Like a pet?"  Chain man grunted.

Carl became aware of other people, more filtering out from the farm door .  Glancing back a handful more walking down the road.

"A source of curiosity.  And his question stands." Tom sounded more amused than anything else.  As though the whole event had been put on to liven up his long wait.  Or maybe he was playing to the crowd as some of the new arrivals stopped to watch, while others just walked in through the gate.

"A simple yes or no will do." Carl continued to stand calmly.  Very deliberately not making any move towards his rifle.

"One minute." The girl turned around and walked back inside the gate.  No one else moved.  A fly buzzed lazily.  Some piece of unsecured metal flexed in the light breeze, creaking softly.  All conversation had stopped and Carl could feel every eye on him.   Just when he thought that the girl had gone for good and was going to leave him standing for the amusement of the others she reappeared with a handful of bread.  She flung it in his direction and it landed at his feet.

"What's this?"

"A day's food.  Come back tomorrow if you want tomorrow's."

The laughter was back the men at the gate. Carl stood and stared. He had not cried since he was a child but the hotness in his eyes was threatening.  Such an effort, and for so little.  It was barely what he would eat for breakfast.  Only his pride remained and he stiffly bent down, to pick it up. Only to find he couldn't get to it. He had to drop to his knees in the dirt to reach the bread.  The laughter intensified. Shaking with shame Carl grabbed the bread and thrust it into his knapsack. Then he stood turned and began to walk away.  Hoots of laughter, jeers and catcalls filled his ears.  For a moment he imagined using the rifle, anger overwhelming but then reason returned.  He had few bullets. Unless they ran in terror the mob would get their revenge, and he would not survive it.  Blocking his ears Carl set off home.

The only small bright spot was that the anger and shame kept Carl's mind from the effort of walking, he was most of the way back home without realising.  Tom was still keeping pace, but this time walking by his side.  When Tom saw that Carl had noticed him a look akin to pity crossed his face.

"It's not your fault. Just what you represent to them."

"Which is."

"Parasites."

"I've earned every penny I have."

"And planted nothing and built nothing and delivered nothing. Yet you have somewhere to live, a place of your own. More food than you can eat.  We share a bed, one sleeping two working, we have a small locker which contains everything we own and every penny we earn goes to the rent or for food.  You have more than us so we hate you."

Carl shook his head.

"That's not my fault."

"No. Just how it was. Now it will be different.  Probably no better.  Different people with things, different people without."

They reached Carl's porch together and Tom stopped abruptly.

"I wouldn't recommend going back tomorrow, they might not find it so funny."

"So you want me to starve."

"Yes. I already said I want your house."

Carl raised his rifle and aimed at Tom.

"You don't want to do that." 

"Why on earth not?" Carl growled and flicked off the safety.

"Oh you'll see sense. After all, I'm quite prepared to wait. Others may not be." Tom's smile was seraphic. "Time will pass, food will grow short. Maybe you'll need it to fight of those who'd steal from you. Maybe use it to threaten and steal from your neighbours.  Who knows?  You could need every shot."

Carl paused as the words hit home. The logic was cruel, but undeniable.  Tom smiled at the indecision and sat back down in the centre of the road.  He closed his eyes as if about to sleep. Then open them again as though hit by a sudden thought.

"And of course if you do fire that thing at me who is going to deliver you any more bullets?"