The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. I was sitting at home doing work when I looked out the window and saw two backpackers standing on the corner of the street. One was a big man with a big coat and a woolly hat. The other was a short woman with her head covered by the hood of her coat. They both wore big backpacks. The man had two foldable mats strapped to either side of his backpack. They were standing by the road as if waiting for a car to pick them up.

An hour later I looked out the window and they were still there. I wasn't sure because they were far away but they looked young, in their twenties. They were both looking around the street as if waiting for a car to show up. I imagined they were hitchhiking around the world. I felt bad for them. Whoever they were waiting for hadn't shown up.

Then I remembered something I had read recently in one of my son's books:

"Being a good person doesn't mean much. Look around you. The city is filled with good people, but none of them are doing anything. It's not enough to just be good. You have to do good!"

The book is about a policeman with the head of a dog, by the way.

Anyway, I said to myself, "If they're still there in half an hour, I'll go down to the street and ask if they need help."

Half an hour later, they were still there. I put on my coat. I went down to the street. I approached them. They weren't young after all, but in their forties. They looked homeless. The man had a week's worth of stubble.

"Do you need something to eat?" I asked them.

They didn't understand. So I mimed eating. The wife understood and shook her head. The man understood and said, "Eat, yes. Eat."

"I can get a sandwich for you if you want? There's a cafe just around the corner."

"We go in there?" He pointed to the supermarket across the road.

"Oh, the supermarket?" I said. "Er... yeah, sure."

He took off his backpack and left it with his wife. Then together we went inside the supermarket. There was a cashier with a bright and easy smile. His smile never wavered even when he saw the homeless man enter the supermarket. Everything in the supermarket looked too bright and too clean. I felt self-conscious about bringing a homeless man into a supermarket.

The man got a trolley. I headed over to the bread.

"I'm just getting some bread for myself," I said, picking up a baguette.

He put a loaf of bread in his trolley. Then he picked up a five-litre bottle of cooking oil.

"I get oil?" he said. "To cook?"

Thankfully it was cheap vegetable oil, not expensive olive oil.

"Sure," I said.

"I am from Romania," he said. "I come here with my wife and my children. I have two daughter, seven and thirteen year old. We come here six month ago. I had a friend tell me I would have a job here, a job, uh lifting things." He mimed picking up a box from the floor. "But there was no job. My friend tell me I would have apartment here. But there is no apartment. We have no home. We live in an abandoned building."

While he was talking I noticed his breath smelled bad. At first, I assumed it was alcohol. Then I realised it wasn't the smell of alcohol. It smelled like something rotting.

"My tooth," he said.

He showed me his teeth. Most of the teeth were fine. But one tooth was black and had eroded almost right down to the gums. Somehow the front of this tooth was still intact. But the rest was almost gone.

I could emphasize with him since I have tooth pain too.

"I have a friend who's a dentist," I say. "If you want I can ask her to see you?"

"No, no," he said "I'm scared of dentists."

Scared of going to the dentist? Rotting teeth? No home? He was worse off than me. I rarely meet people who are worse off than me.

I walked him to the dental section and got him some floss and mouthwash. I noticed he already had toothpaste in his trolley.

"What is this?" he said, holding up the floss.

"It's floss," I said. "It's like string. You put it between your teeth."

I mimed putting floss between my teeth and pulling it back and forth. He looked amazed.

"And this?" he said, holding up the mouthwash. "I drink it?"

"No, you don't drink it," I said. "You just put some in your mouth, swill it around a bit, then spit."

We were heading to the checkout when he said, "I get some cookies?" he said. "As treat for my daughter."

"Sure," I said.

Soon he had everything he wanted. We went to the checkout to pay. We loaded the stuff on the conveyor belt. And there was a lot of stuff: a packet of chicken legs, a loaf of bread, a five-litre bottle of vegetable oil, a ready meal, Pot Noodles, three packets of Oreos, a packet of cream rolls, a bottle of TRESemmé shampoo, a can of Nivea deodorant, a bottle of Ariel washing detergent, a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and mouth wash. The most expensive thing was the litre bottle of Ariel washing detergent. Ariel's the most expensive brand. Even I don't buy Ariel. I don't know anyone who buys Ariel.

Altogether it cost 58.43 euro.

I helped put the groceries into bags (15 cents per bag).

He left the bags in a coin-operated locker to return and get them later. We went back outside.

"Can you buy me some of this?" he said. He showed me a packet. It was Paracetamol. "My tooth," he said. "I take this and it stop the pain."

So we went to a pharmacy. I bought him two types of Paracetamol, the tablet kind, and the powder kind.

We left the pharmacy. "Do you have a blanket?" he said. "It is cold at night. We have no blanket. I look in shop but it is twenty euro for blanket."

"Um, I have a blanket at home, but I can't really give it to you. It belongs to my girlfriend."

He nodded. "I want to go back to Romania," he said suddenly. "Can you buy the tickets?"

"How much are the tickets?" I asked, fearing the answer.

"150 euro."

"In total?"

"Per person. There are four of us. Me, my wife, and my two daughters."

"What is it, by plane?"

"No, by bus."

I didn't know what to do. I'd only come to buy him a sandwich. Now I was being asked to spend 600 euros on bus tickets. And possibly 20 euro on a blanket.

"I need to think about it," I said. "Do you come around here often?"

"I am here every day. I give you my phone number."

I gave him my phone. He entered his number into WhatsApp. He entered him name as "gheorghe".

"Gheorghe," he said, pronouncing it as Jor-gay. "I am Gheorghe."

"Okay. Well, let me think about it, okay?"

"We do not like it here. It is better in Romania. We should never have come here. Back in Romania, we have jobs, we have home. Here, we have nothing."

I felt sorry for him. But 600 euro is a lot of money.

"Well, I have to get home now," I said. "Good luck."

He looked sad. He didn't think I'd text him back. He was probably right.

I went back home.

So that was Gheorghe.