F*ck*ng Waste

A man’s quiet disgust toward a vagrant escalates into a confrontation that forces him to face his own hypocrisy.

Of course, he was entitled to eat. I mean, that wasn’t what had bothered me, it was the way he went about it. I had lined up patiently inside the McGoverney Burger. It was a Friday, lunchtime in the heart of the city. People flying in and out. The place was a sardine can. Here he comes, shuffling in with a limp. Flies circling him like vultures to a corpse, which he looked halfway to becoming. Naturally, the whole store parts like the Red Sea. No one wants to stand near the guy. No one wants to risk the odours of his body hitting their nostril hairs. I’m a metre away from the counter, about to place my order. He shuffles over, and I do not fight for my place. I remain still. He sees this and figures, I’m not ordering, so he takes it upon himself to move to the front of the line. Cutting into the six-person-long queue. None of us say a thing. We’re all too scared. Scared is the wrong word. Intimidated… maybe? All of a sudden, I’m not hungry anymore.

“I’ll have the big Scranton with a side of bacon, large fries, and a cherry shake,” he orders, the vowels rolling off the tongue, as if he had done so a million times, despite his slight frame telling a contrary story.

“Eat in or take away?” The frowning check-out assistant asks.

“Take away.”

Thank the Lord.

He pays with a pristine credit card he digs out from his ripped pants, which surprises all of us, and stands to one side. The checkout man signals for me to place my order. I’m reluctant to move. A tap on my shoulder from the patron behind gives me the Dutch courage.

“What can I get you?” He asks.

“Double chili hotdog with a side of Cajun fries,” I say with a clenched mouth and cemented teeth.

“Any drinks?”

“No.”

I pay the man and I shuffle over to another waiting area, my phone retrieved from my pocket for solace. My nose hovering over my shirt entrance to avoid the smell.

Our meals arrive and two brown bags are placed on the counter simultaneously. He shuffles over and I delay my walk until he has completed his. I walk over and grab my bag. The proximity it held to his put me further off my appetite.

Outside the store, I walk towards the metro where I will catch the next service back to Queenstreet, back to my desk. It is my hope that a return to my tasks will deliver me the same hungry undertones that sent me forth on the adventure of a fast food encounter.

Along the way I walk past the vagrant as he waits at a traffic light that is held red. Those gathered have given him a wide berth. It is in my direction, but I keep my distance. I see through the sea of commuters that he is kneeling over something. Is he hurt? Is he sick?

The light goes green and I venture over, passing him as I see what he is up to before my foot crosses the road.

He is leaning over a gathering of pigeons. Winged rats who gather more and more at what he is offering. His meal in bite-sized chunks delivered in fistfuls, as he hurls them towards the ever-grateful birds. They don’t take heed of the hand that holds their food. They relish it. They welcome it.

“Fucking waste,” I say under my breath as I pass. He bends his torso up. He has heard me. To my horror, he heard me. I press on. My footsteps gather pace. I walk faster towards the entrance of the metro. I’m confident I have fled and am safely away. The vagrant was a shuffler, remember? He won’t catch up… I say to myself.

On the platform, there is a four-minute wait. I stare at my bag, warming my hand, and am tempted to indulge.

Wait. Just wait for your desk.

“Excuse me?”

I turn around.

It’s him. He is here. He is talking with me. Did he follow me?

I pretend like I don’t recognize him.

“Yeah?”

“I noticed you said that what I was doing back there was a fucking waste?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say.

“I was feeding the birds. You said it was a fucking waste.”

“I didn’t.”

I take out some earpods and place the buds in my ears, pretending to drown him out. He pays no attention and continues.

“Do you have a problem with how I spend my money?” He asks.

“I’m surprised you have any,” I say. Although I don’t know why I did, it wasn’t my intention to provoke. I don’t want to get into a fistfight with this vagrant. I should have watched my mouth.

“What harm is it that the birds were fed?” He asks.

“It’s a waste of food,” I say.

“How so?”

“People work hard to make that food and you just throw it away,” I said.

“I didn’t throw it away, and it wasn’t wasted,” he explained.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” I replied.

“The pigeons will have full bellies and will even have some to take to their nests. This will sustain a generation for a week. You have some problem with this?” He continued.

“No, man… I don’t. I just want to be left alone,” I say.

“Funny, that’s how I felt a moment ago, until someone took it upon themselves to publicly comment on my choices. I guess they weren’t expecting to be pulled up on their behaviour.” He said.

He turned his back and walked off towards the escalators. He no longer shuffled. He walked with purpose. The train pulled in behind me; its presence foretold by the gush of air that pressed against my back.

I entered the carriage and watched as the tunnels appeared, blackening the brightness of the stations for the subterranean world beneath our feet. I meditated on the encounter for a brief minute and wondered if I would remember to tell it to Nicole that evening.

“This crazy guy… you should have seen it…” was how the hypothetical conversation played out in my imagination.

I sat on the nearest seat and was tempted by the smell of the burger so much that I began to eat. After the third bite, I felt the mayonnaise blotch on the side of my cheek. I looked up to an attractive woman, attempting to read a book but frowning at her obvious disgust of my actions.

I wrapped the burger and placed it back in the bag, wiped the mayo from my cheek and prayed for a quick death.