He steps into the middle of the crowded carriage. Other passengers immediately stand aside. "He's not one of us, he's one of them."
He's wearing a blue jacket over a grey fleece, neither of them recently washed. They're functional and warm, no fashion statement here. On his lapel a tiny "White Stripes" badge, the only token nod to commercialism. Below the waist a pair of grubby navy blue leggings, shapeless and slightly baggy. There's a smell, an unmistakable whiff, and it's probably coming from down there. On his feet a pair of black Reeboks, both laceless, tongues flapping, long past their prime. A toe emerges from the tip of the left shoe, poking reluctantly through the plastic. He's out of place. Stand back, leave him be.
The train doors close. He leans heavily on a single metal crutch, cap in hand. Small change jingles somewhere within, and the travelling public trembles. Please no, please don't wave your hat around, please don't start begging. There's no escape, no way out, and the next station's a minute or two away. Thankfully no. He removes a handful of cash from deep within, and places the now-empty baseball cap on his head.
With a wobble he staggers across to the far side of the carriage, requesting that others make way, which they do. And there he stands, oblivious to the materialism displayed all around, counting his wealth oh so oh so carefully. It's all in silver coins, twenties and tens mostly, the odd fifty. And he counts them out in pound-sized piles, before carefully dropping each into what he thinks is a wallet. Looks more like a plastic bag to everyone else, the flimsy sort that supermarkets offer for self-service fruit and veg.
Disaster strikes. A 20p coin tumbles from his grimy fingers and rolls away across the carriage floor. Past feet, past bags, too far to reach, too far to see. Like lightning he rests his crutch to one side and crouches down on his haunches, reflexes like a wild cat. His arm reaches out through a sea of shiny shoes and trousers. Move aside, make way, nothing hard earned must be allowed to escape. And got it. And relax.
Back on his feet, back on his crutch, the counting continues. More coins are pulled from a pocket, chink, and more still from another pocket, chink. There's a fair amount of cash here, more than enough for a cup of tea, probably enough for a kettle. On and on, another five makes another pound, chink chink chink. These coins are his total focus, his entire world, his reason for being. They're the difference between hunger and a next meal, between nothing and something.
Station by station, his wallet fills. And then he's off, shuffling out through the carriage door with the rest of the homebound commuters. They dash up the escalator, heading for home and all its comforts, while he hangs around on the platform, waits, lingers. It's cold out there, no rush. A man can't get far on small change alone.
