But that day, I happened to be in a particularly good mood, having spent the morning and most of the afternoon typing away at my desk and producing a good number of pages. I felt like I had something to celebrate. And it just so happened, as I passed the homeless-shelter a corner from my apartment, an old man who lived there was sat on a ledge enjoying the late-afternoon sun on his face.
“Fuck it,” I thought to myself and walked over. The old man took notice of me, for a second (He had to, this kid coming up to him for no reason, with a wide smile for no reason.) but, as I sat down on the ledge just like him, he closed his eyes again. “How’s it going?” I spew. The old man takes notice of me again, “Good,” he says, “The sun is warm. I’ve got some cool beers.” He lifts up a six-pack out of the shrubbery behind him. “Seems like we had the same idea, “I reply and hold out the Port-bottle.” The old man grins, “Seems like great minds think alike. Well, don’t hold back on my account. Take a sip of your wine.” I open the bottle and take a swig.
That is how I met Latif, a sixty-year old from Suriname, ex-con, now a pensioner getting by on unemployment checks. He sometimes reminds me of Morgan Freeman, with the brown freckled face and the gray hair, and the sage’s advice he likes to give.
We sat on that ledge until sundown. Discussing our days. He told me, he had just received his monthly beer-money from the government, which coincided perfectly with the good weather. I told him that I was working on a novel, what it was about. “You should write about us, the people who live here,” he said, “We’re the most interesting bunch on the block. All loonies in one way or another.”
At that moment, someone else comes out the side entrance of the shelter, someone in a wheelchair. Latif sees him and immediately yells: “HEY JAMAL, JAMAL, I’m over here, COME, COME.” The guy in the wheelchair comes rolling over. Jamal’s wearing sandals and shorts, but a coat and a cap as well. He seems younger than Latif, somewhere in his forties, with fairer skin and without the gray hair.
Latif introduces us: “This is my new friend, Henry. He’s as cool as they come. And Henry, meet my friend Jamal, he’s a retired pirate from Somalia.” Jamal stutters back in a tone that sounds serious and comedic at the same time: “Yes, I’m from Somalia,” he turns at me, “But I’m not a pirate, dear Sir. And I’m not retired. I’m just in a wheelchair, unlike my lazy friend over here.” Latif boulders at his friend’s comment and takes another beer can out of the bushes. “Do you want also want one?” he asks Jamal.
Jamal shakes his head, “No, give it your friend.” I take another swig of wine and say, “No thanks. I’m good.” Jamal looks at the bottle and he starts to grin, his eyes lighting up. “Dear Sir,” he commences, “If it’s not too much to ask, could I have a sip of your wine. It looks delicious.” “Come on, give this old guy some of your liquor,” Latif laughs and I hand over the bottle.
I share a few drinks with my new friends, while we watch the sky until it becomes dark. Then, I stumble back to my apartment. I feel fuzzy, and happy, and no longer have the need to celebrate something.