About Jonah

People sometimes ask how Jonah came to wander his way through these stories? The easy answer is he just happens to be there. He’s always there, somewhere in the background. Asking for money to buy food. Drinking a can of his favourite strong lager, or maybe a cheap bottle of wine if someone has been particularly generous that day. Or asleep on a bench in a park. And, every so often, he bumps into people, usually inadvertently, but sometimes more purposely if he knows they are good for a fag or two, or a small donation.

There’s a Jonah in every city or larger town, we’ve all met him, or avoided him, as he stumbles along the pavement. The clothes may not always be the same, generally shabby, but occasionally bizarre, and he’ll usually have a few days stubble, making you wonder why it is that he shaves some days instead of growing a beard? But that’s not the type of question Jonah wastes time on, he’s a man with a mission, to get enough money for the next drink and, if he’s lucky, for a night in a hostel. Shop doorways or cardboard cities are exposed and uncomfortable.

He’s learned to be manipulative; he has to be to survive. He gets angry, but that’s understandable, given the hardness of his existence compared with the people who pass him by. He’s grateful, when someone gives him money, afraid of being beaten-up much of the time, and always alone, even when he’s with the other street people with whom he hangs out. He has vague memories of a better, earlier life, and sometimes he feels tears welling-up as the images appear and he recalls what he’s lost. The problem is that passers-by see only the outstretched hand and shabby clothes, they don’t see Jonah. And that’s a pity, Jonah deserves to be seen.

So, where did Jonah come from? Nobody seems to know. I found him one lunchtime, as I sat at a pub window. He was wandering along the street opposite, on his way into the city. But where he actually came from is anyone’s guess. Apart from other homeless people, I never saw anyone talking to him. People in the homeless hostel might know more but, in a way, it’s irrelevant. After all, what does it add to the stories? My interest is the man in the charcoal-coloured overcoat, tied round with string, the one I still imagine walking around the city with an unshaven face and rheumy eyes. The one with the red vinyl shopping bag and the clanking cans of lager…