M. Beisenherz: Sorry, I’m here privately
A glimmer on the fringes of society
Micky Beisenherz writes in his column about meeting a homeless person.
© M. Beisenherz
Winter time is especially tough for the homeless. The corona pandemic makes things even more difficult. Micky Beisenherz writes about meeting a man that made him thoughtful.
I come to see him regularly. On the way to the supermarket, my coffee shop or the nice travel agency who always take my mail when the DHL courier gives up after the fourth parcel, groaning in annoyance.
His spot is in front of the Sparkasse. Right across from the Großneumarkt, where people in the district buy fish, vegetables or expensive containers. He literally lives on the edge of society.
At that time his place was right next to the door to the anteroom of the bank. So he could get up quickly to assist the customer in case the card got stuck again and the door wouldn’t open. Just out of gratitude you immediately rummaged in your pockets for change, as you felt like you were being courted at the entrance to the Vier Jahreszeiten.
Now that – presumably due to infection protection – the ATM is embedded in the wall outside, this service is no longer necessary and it is moved two meters further under the canopy.
Then he sits on a small wooden chair. Like a boxing coach on his stool in the corner of the ring, waiting for his protégé to survive the round. Except that there is a completely different battle going on here. With his beefy stature, broad nose and bald head under his woolly hat, he looks like someone who appears in Guy Ritchie films when others run out of money. The friendly, concise sentences he throws you sound Eastern European. “Hello boss!”
“Left Gucci, right Armani”
Who is he? Or better – who was he? Was he a dock worker before his “job was cut”? But possibly also a percussionist in the Bucharest Philharmonic. Perhaps an architect from Cairo after all, who sought his luck here? It is less the accent than the present that reveals a lot about him. He enjoys beautiful things. Its two square meters are fringed by flower arrangements in cheap plastic pots. Like a fence around his little kingdom.
He stretches out his strong arms, points to the bouquets in front of him, “left Gucci, right Armani” and laughs at the little extravagance that enriches his life. Gucci and Armani are now joined by many small lights. Candles, tea lights, a dozen or so smaller flames that frame it.
People come by and give him a little money. Some bring him a coffee. Black. Others sit down and talk to him. It cannot be said exactly whether it is a community of fate, the other two also live on the street or are allowed to go back to their well-heated apartments after a little chat.
While he lies down on his cot just behind the stool. He zips up the tent structure above him. Does he sometimes look out of the small window through the canvas at night at the lights around his plot? On the garland that he has now attached between the concrete pillars under the canopy? A person lives here.
It’s afternoon and it’s getting dark again. With the gaze of someone engaged in a meaningful activity, he is busy fiddling batteries into the floor of electric lights. The flames of the pillar candles could no longer withstand the icy wind. The batteries will last a few days.
Is it proper to have the impression that he is satisfied? He never complains. He’s happy about money. Coffee. Candles. The beauty, here at the knee of the others.