Not Just a Number

Not Just a Number
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday May 2, 2015

The train doors hissed open. I stepped aboard and sat on an empty bench as we glided out of the station.

Opposite me, a decrepit old fellow was sprawled on the carriage floor, sorting his stash of grimy shopping bags. A long bulbous nose gave him an air of Jimmy Durante, minus the felt homburg. His long beard was a tangle of white wisps. A red-checked parka and black tracksuit pants, the knees peppered with holes, did little to pad his raw-boned frame. The soles of his black sneakers had worn down to reveal threadbare socks and a glimpse of grubby feet. He gave me a sly glance with one bloodshot eye.

With arthritic fingers, he peeled open a plastic pocket and slid a collection of small sugar packets into one hand. I watched, fascinated, as he laid them end-to-end, domino style. With a grunt, he swept up the sugar packets and lined them up like soldiers instead. Satisfied, he reached for another plastic sleeve.

A dozen fag-ends dropped onto the carriage floor. He examined each for drag-worthiness before placing them in rows, biggest to smallest. I noticed his hoard also contained one green lemon and a collection of worn elastic bands, neatly parcelled in rings.

The intercom announced my station. I stood up. “Bye,” I said as an afterthought, but his head remained bowed. I wondered where he was going.

At dawn the next morning, I set off on my bike ride. The low-slung clouds threatened rain. On a whim, I abandoned my usual river route for the bike path that hugs the far side of the railway line. At the level crossing, I waited as the express thundered past in a silver blur. Clattering over the tracks, I swung into the cycle lane, almost colliding with a mound of dark blanket and a pile of shopping bags. It was the homeless man from yesterday. I couldn’t believe it!

He was stretched across the path, propped on one elbow, classifying another collection of sugar packets.

“You’re going to get run over” I said gently. He strained to move into a sitting position. “That’s better” I said, as he slumped against the railway fence, clearing the bike path. He drew his various gubbins towards him and resumed grading his sugar straws. I didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you,” I murmured as I pedalled away. He stayed in my thoughts the whole ride.

Later that morning, two suburbs from mine, I rounded a corner to go to the post office. There he was again, sunning himself on a bench, still cataloguing his detritus.

“Hello,” I said. “That’s three times I’ve seen you since yesterday!”

His head jerked upwards. He eyeballed me but said nothing.

“Is it nice in the sun?” I said, faltering.

He murmured something I couldn’t hear.

“I’m going to the shops,” I said, pointing across the road. “Can I get you anything?”

“Apples,” he muttered.

“Apples? Okay. Back in ten minutes. Will you be here?”

He gave me an affirmative noise.

As I trundled my trolley up the aisles, I decided our third meeting was a coincidence too remarkable to dismiss. Had this homeless man entered my life for a reason? I felt intrigued, then rattled. Were our lives somehow fated to intertwine? What was I supposed to do for him?

The pragmatic quarter of my brain intervened. Coincidences are inevitable, I reminded myself. Why invent a reason to make these chance meetings meaningful? We had merely stumbled across each other by a quirk of timing.

I remembered back in 2001, being completely absorbed in one of the conspiracy theories after 9/11. The date had become noteworthy because 9/11 (9 plus 1 plus 1) equalled 11, and American Airlines Flight 11 was the first to hit the twin towers. There were 92 people on board (9 plus 2), and Sept. 11 was the 254th day of the year (2 plus 5 plus 4). There were 11 letters each in ‘Afghanistan,’ ‘New York City’ and ‘the Pentagon.’ The World Trade towers themselves took the form of the number 11.

Everyone I told about this pattern marvelled at the parallels. Later, I read that the number 11 sequence wasn’t actually an existing pattern. It was merely a pattern that conspiracy theorists had found. I chastised myself for being so gullible. And yet here I was again, trying to force significance upon three random encounters with a stranger.

I gathered my shopping and walked out of the supermarket, a bag of red apples in my free hand. The bench was empty. I scanned the street but there was no old man with wavy white hair and tartan-parka. I parked myself on the bench and waited for several minutes, perplexed. But he had gone. Why had we met? Luck of the draw, I guess.