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He couldn't remember when he hadn't lived on the streets.
That didn't mean much really, as his brain was somewhat addled by the cheap plonk that was his choice of liquid. He would have preferred a decent Scotch but finances had been a little stretched to say the least, since his long time dive into alcoholism and homelessness.
Still, he thought to himself, these digs were about the best that he had experienced. Cool in Summer. Relatively warm in Winter. And the pedestrians above him supplied him with a trickle of cigarette butts. Those who knew that he resided below their feet would often leave him half an eaten sandwich or some other morsel. Dropping it down to him as they passed overhead, walking quickly up the concrete ramp to their place of employment. Pretending that there was no such thing as homeless guys so close below them. Dirty, hungry men finding refuge living under a concrete ramp in the front of a modern architectural office monolith.
Satisfying their somewhat guilty feelings by leaving a morsel as they quickened their gait to return to the real world.
Their attendance required urgently at their desk. As though the fate of the World awaited their panicked return!
He sniggered at these thoughts.
People thought that they were so important, as though their brief sojourn to the Toilet, to grab a coffee or to have a quick smoke at the front of the building would effect the equilibrium of Nature.
And of all things!
People were so wasteful too.
He would often think that half his kindly donors would be absolutely lost if they found themselves in similar circumstances as he. They wouldn't survive. That thought pleased him. The proof of his resilience. Of his survival instincts.
A half eaten apple dropped down beside him.
A half sandwich hurriedly eaten still in its wrapper.
A cigarette pack with three unlit smokes followed.
He had a hell of job trying to decide which of his windfalls he should partake in first!
It was one of those lucky lunch breaks that bought manna from heaven. The donors would hardly think twice of their wastefulness, possibly tempering that guilt with the knowledge that they had been so thoughtful to the 'Alco' who resided below them.
He rolled over smelling himself for the first time that morning. Like a dead dog. Perhaps a fresh turd smelled better. He would need to visit the Shelter soon otherwise they'd be looking for him. Prising him out from his hidey-hole. Making a fuss, pretending to be thoughtful. Showing concern for him. But other eyes would be watching the fracas. Waiting until he was transported away to take ownership of his little palace.
A drunken fight would result if he wanted to reclaim what was rightfully his.
If doubted that he could survive such a melee.
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