The Last Shot

The camera was starting to feel heavy around my neck, it had been a long day and the light was starting to go. I would have to call it a day soon. I had a few shots left on the film and was desperate to get them used up before the light went completely. People were still milling round, ending their busy days shopping or working. One group over loaded with huge branded shopping bags, the other trudging towards the station appearing unsure of whether they would rather be going home or back to work.

I was just passing a small square park near the station when I saw him. The park was bordered by a low iron railing and was so small you could see clear across the park to the bustle of commuters barging past each other on the other side. Amidst all of this chaos the park seemed like an oasis of calm and sat on one of the two simple wooden benches was an old man. He was sat there with a large newspaper open in front of him, I couldn’t tell if he was reading it or just watching the stream of bodies flood around him, waiting for the waters to subside before embarking on his own journey home.

MAN SITTING ON BENCH READING A NEWSPAPER  by David McCabe Sep 2012

Most evenings, after work, I walk over to the city park and go for a jog or most likely a quick walk. Need to get the weight down. I’m also getting on in years sixty last birthday. The park is about four miles square, full of flowers, trees and benches. I sometimes come across courting couples having a snog behind the bushes or the odd tramp shuffling around.

One particular evening mid September with a clear sky, a light breeze blowing with birds singing everywhere, I walked into the park.  The ducks on the shallow pond were as usual being harassed by the aggressive seagulls -  something should be done about them-.  I sat on my usual bench to change my shoes. Proud of my shoes I am, all leather, cost a lot they did. There was a man, looking quite scruffy, relaxed on a bench across the path with his upper body hidden by the Financial Times. Strange, I thought, the Financial Times at this time of day.

As I stood up he crossed his legs, showing the sole of his shoe with a large hole in it and a piece of cardboard hiding the sole of his foot. Ever cautious I placed my leather shoes in a plastic bag and hid them in a bush behind the bench and  started my walk. Feeling quite lively I started to jog a bit, scattering a flock of aggressive seagulls - get back to the ocean you vermin -   and trotted around the park enjoying the wind in my face.  After a short while I settled into a fast walk. Wonder about that guy reading the paper, his shoes certainly needed a repair. He looked a bit scruffy - but reading the FT!

Walking briskly with arms pumping I rounded a large flower bed to find a man dressed in a well worn suit with a scraggy beard shuffling toward me. As we passed he gave me a smile, touched the rolled up pink newspaper to his forehead in greeting and exited from the park. Must be the guy on the bench I thought.  Panting a bit I reached my bench and gathered the plastic bag from the bushes. In the gathering dusk I sat down feeling very satisfied with my self, another long walk completed.

That’s strange, I thought, this shoe feels odd. What’s this bit of cardboard doing in it?

The City

Ten years ago I would have come here seeking fame and fortune. Back then I wanted to change the world, although back then I would never have had the vision I have now. My dreams then were very different, my aspirations somewhat more grounded, far too near focused for achieving fame and fortune. That's probably why I had never even aspired to visit this place in my youth, perhaps if I had it would have awoken me to the possibilities of life so much sooner and I would have wasted less of my life with such pedestrian pursuits. Now the world hand changed me and I had come here seeking oblivion and anonymity, I was still going to change the world but it was going to be in a big way and the was no way I wanted to be in the front line. I had arrived with one simple shoulder bag and little else. When I had left my old life there had been no time to pack anything more than a change of clothes and a hand full of mementos of people I probably wouldn't see again. The bag was light, the virtues of the digital age meant that the photographic record of my previous incarnation was only a little larger than a postage stamp tucked into my wallet. Apart from that and a huge sheaf of bank notes my wallet was empty, I had carefully stripped it bare of any identifying documents or cards. I would have to furnish my self with some new ones in due course but that was all part of the ordeal of reinvention.