The rain lashed eastwards as I huddled under the shadow of the arches, warming my hands over a makeshift fire.
“Any success?” I hollered out to Jim.
He stumbled towards me, across the stony mud, holding a tattered anorak over his head.
“Aye lad, I found some leftovers on a bench. Tonight, we are going to feast like King Charles!”
He reached the cover of the bridge, threw down his coat and waved a plastic carrier in my face. “Pizza, garlic bread and half a banana,” he chortled.
I grinned, and not for the first time I was grateful for this old man who had taken me under his wing. He opened up the bag, took out a soggy cardboard box and ceremoniously opened the lid. Two slices of congealed cheese, margherita and a half chewed crusty baguette stared back at us. I dove straight in as my stomach rumbled its thanks. We shared the slimy banana and settled down for the night in reflective silence, with our backs against the wall.
I stared at the River Thames; its waters glistening in the light of the setting sun as the raindrops bounced off its surface. I envied its freedom to run away from the London city; to be able to make its way home to the open sea.
The quiet of the evening was broken by the off-beat rhythmic thud of reggae music, carried across from a party-boat cruising its way down stream. I could see the girls in their skimpy outfits holding champagne glasses and young men laughing into their beers. That was me half a year ago. I was super-rich and popular; living a high-octane life. I dressed in the best clothes, ate at expensive restaurants and danced the nights away with a string of gorgeous women. I thought I was living my best life!
But then the money ran out, and I had to check out of the glittery hotels and exchange the Michelin-starred restaurants for greasy Joes. My girlfriends disappeared into the arms of the next ‘hotshot in town.’ I began to sofa-surf with the few friends I had left, until they too drifted away. I was penniless. I was homeless. I was helpless. Those were the bleakest days of my life, until I met Jim. He was a pro at living rough and taught me to be street-wise. He had become a good friend.
“So, lad, winter’s on its way.” Jim broke the silence between us. “Living rough is a completely different ball game in the cold. Many of us don’t make it. You should think about going home.'
“I can’t.” “Why not?” “It’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it.” I turned my back to him, pulled my hoodie up over my head, and sat hunched against my knees.
“Okay, no need to take on so, I’ve just grown to care about you, Tom. I won’t say another word.” He sat there smoking a discarded stub end. I knew he was waiting for me to speak. My mind was racing. I couldn’t stop thinking. The events of the last two years were crowding in on me. Eventually, I sat up and turned around. I was ready to talk.
“The truth is Jim, I feel ashamed. I can’t ever face my family again. I had everything I needed but I was bored. I wanted excitement. I desired everything that wealth could buy and I got it. I squandered my dad’s money because I was selfish and didn’t think about anybody but myself. And the truth is, it didn’t fulfil me. There was an emptiness where happiness was supposed to be. There was a hole in my heart where love should have been. And now look at me, living like this!” I looked around our sanctuary under the arches. “Sorry Jim, no offence meant!”
“None taken, lad, but I do think you’ve got to make a choice.”
“I don’t have a choice. My dad would never take me back after what I’ve done. I’ve blown it.”
Jim just looked at me and smiled. “You need to take a chance Tom, and believe in your dad’s love. He must be heartbroken and I bet he looks out for you every day. He’s your father and I know he’ll never give up on waiting for you to come home.”
Inspired by: Luke15: 11-32.