Homeless man in faded brown knickers, once white, and dress shirt, once blue and now in threads, suddenly stops to face the opposite direction of the foot traffic on the busy Monday morning corridor. Something has caught his attention – his feet. Apparently he can feel the sun-scorched concrete under one foot now. He looks down, one head cocked to the side in confusion. The displaced slipper is between his half-dressed feet instead of on his right foot. When did it wriggle its way off?
And then, as if for the first time, he contemplates the state of his toes. They aren’t just toes anymore. They’re riddled with corn. The corn on the big toe had grown so defiantly, it pushed off and replaced the nail there. Little slashes and black pock marks decorated the surface so intricately, you couldn’t tell the true complexion of that foot anymore.
For a moment, he feels remorse coursing down his sternum. He grunts at the femininity of the feeling, spits phlegm in disgust, shrugs the slipper on in frustration and starts off again. The Monday morning foot traffic walk wide away from him. Some people squint, scowl and pinch their noses as they pass.
He stops again, this time in front of a banner advertising safe drinking. The woman ambassador who stands in confidence of her beauty, freshly sponsored clothes and the knowledge of the cheque she’d get for being the “face” of the campaign, disgusts him. And seemingly without awareness, but rather mechanically, the man whips out his withered penis and sprays renk golden rain on her face, spits some more, and resumes his journey – grumbling to himself, as if satisfied he had gotten his revenge on the world that discarded him.