Nothing But Disgust

‘Bag Lady’

He cleared his throat bent down and spat straight into the bag ladies face. The green phlegm dangled from her eyebrow like a Christmas bauble.
“You will be judged,” she repeated in her monotone voice.
The man laughed hysterically with the other bankers all dressed in their designer suits reeking of whisky and expensive aftershave.
The little old lady sat hunched against the wall between two banks her trolley full of rubbish parked next to her.The bag ladies blue eyes sparkled out from beneath the wrinkled dirtied face and matted grey hair. Long on one side and short on the other like she’d hacked it off.
She wore a man’s baggy flannel black and white shirt that was two sizes too big, dirty dark denim jeans, and men’s oversized pumps she had found in a bin.
The banker sniggered and beckoned to his mates to follow him leaving the bag lady in peace sat on her cardboard castle. Four cardboard boxes spread out over the pavement.
The old lady raised her sleeve and wiped the spit off her eyebrow almost robot like oblivious to the weary bits of sleet starting to fall.
There was an array of selection of mostly chipped and stained mugs spread out in front of her cardboard island. Most of them were covered in silly slogans, ‘you don’t have to be mad to live here but it helps,’ ‘world’s best mum’ ‘world’s greatest boss,’ ‘I love dogging’ ‘I heart Boston,’most of the cups were filled with change from passers by.
A young blond girl with a side ponytial approached the bag lady with her much taller brown haired friend, both dressed in sharp gray trouser suits and carrying brown leather satchels.
“Awww,” said the blond haired girl.
“Don’t you dare,” said the brown haired girl.
“You could end up like her,”
“You do end up like her! After six vodkas.”
The blond girl knelt down and emptied all the change from her purse into one of the cups and gave the bag lady a warm smile.
“You will be judged,” said the the bag lady.
“Its snowing and you just gave our taxi money to a tramp. She’s probably a millionaire!”
“Don’t be mean,” said the blond girl. ‘Its freezing.’
“What happened the last time you brought a tramp home?”
The blond girl sighed wearily and repeated the story
‘He urinated over our xmas tree and electrocuted himself.”
“Exactly!”
“Have a nice night,” said the blond girl cheerfully.”
“Have a nice night!? She lives in a box!” C’mon you bimbo. She gives me the creeps.’

The girls linked arms continued their journey through the wine bars on the high street ploughing into the strengthening sleet. The bag lady watched them walk away and spotted the local charity worker a balding man in a beige trench coat ploughing ahead in the snow.
“Hello my sweetheart,” he said kneeling on her island of cardboard. He pulled out a flask from his rucksack and poured a cup of coffee and handed it to the bag lady. She sat it down at her feet like a dog dismissing water before its food. He pulled out the sandwiches and handed them to her. She pulled off the cling film hungrily and started to take small bites.
“Why don’t you come with me? He said. “It's going to be minus tonight.”
“You will be judged,” she said softly.
“You take care. I'll check on you later,” he said pulling down his hat and crossing the road.
There was lots of reasons people dropped money into her cups. Some people had been brought up to be charitable, some people seemed to see her as a toll unable to pass without giving money. Some people did it to show off, some people did it just to get rid of their change. Some people did it out of guilt, guilty that she was sat there on the street and they were not. Some people gave her money simply to make themselves feel good.
To some she was invisible to some she was ignored. People crossed the road to avoid her or hid behind their technology, some people fumbled in their bags or pockets looking for imaginary items.
The little old lady was a mirror, that forced people to take a good hard look at themselves. Some peoples eyes were filled with pity and empathy some were filled with nothing but disgust.
Every day she watched the conveyor belt of people pass her. She listened to the rumours and urban legends she heard about herself.
“I heard she took an acid tab and never came down!”
“I heard her husband left her!”
“I heard her husband left her with five kids! The social found 'em all starving in her tiny flat. Took the little kiddies into care.
“I heard she was a millionaire but she lost it all to gambling”
“I heard she lost it all to drink and drugs!”
The young kids called her a witch. The witch of wenton high street.
The bag lady heard the sound of a bunch of teenage girls laughing. She stared ahead and braced herself. The girls were always much worse than boys.
The ringleader sat next to the bag lady, “Alright darling,” she said in a mocking voice. “I love your hair! Can i have the number to hairdresser babe.”
The girl poked her tongue out and took a selfie next to the old lady with her mobile phone. Each girl followed suit taking it in turns in laughter to take a selfie with the old lady. Some made being sick poses. Some made a gun shape against her head. Each determined to outdo the last. The final girl looked around quickly and flopped out her breasts in the bag ladies face. The girls were all holding on each other by this point screaming with laughter like a pack of hyenas.
“Oi! Oi! You lot. Leave her alone! I recognise that school uniform. St Josephs is it?” It was the charity worker again. He bounded across the street causing a echoing effect of braking cars and beeping horns.
The ringleaders smile dissolved quickly. She flicked the man a v sign and strutted past him her posse of friends following suit.
“You ok?” The old lady gave no response. “Here is a card. Its a local homeless shelter. Just go there if you need! You can even bring your trolley.” He put his card gently on top of the crap in her trolley.
She gave a little nod. The charity worker gave her a smile that could melt snow. Happy to think that he was helping.
She watched the little flakes of snow land on her oversized shoes. Her island of cardboard looked even more like an island now. The snow had started to sprinkle on the uncovered edges of the boxes looking like white beaches.
“Hello again,” shouted the banker from earlier much drunker than the first time she had seen him.
“I’ll give you fifty quid if you say something else.”
“You will be judged.”
“No something else!”
The bag lady stared into nothingness. The banker approached her little island unzipped his designer trousers pulled out his flaccid penis and started urinating in her mugs of money. He went from cup to cup smirking all the while his mates egging him on.
When he was finished he zipped himself up pulled out his wallet and took out fifty quid in notes then threw them in her face. She grabbed the notes quickly as they started to blow away then tucked them into her flannel shirt pocket.
She could still hear them laughing long after she could see them. Her diamond blue eyes surveyed the steaming cups of urine and money she was so deep in tough she didn't see two young boys run past. the latter yanking her trolley over sending its entire contents flying onto the snow covered pavement.
She got up on her knees and crawled over to her possessions. She carefully picked up each item. Old magazines, last week’s local gazette three boxes of foil a few different sized water bottles, packs of tights, different sized shapes and colours of shoes, two little barbie dolls, a child’s make up set, a torch, a mirror, a few tins of stewed steak and baked beans the charity workers had given her, a bundle of aerosol cans bound together by elastic
Everyone looked as they walked past - nobody stopped to help. She pulled the trolley back up and started to place every little thing carefully back in as if each item was made of china.
She heard the clunk of one of the bank doors being closed. She knew it would be the female manager, surrounded by powerful men and hating every moment of it. She had dark eyes,a sharp dark bob and pointy features the bag lady knew what was coming.
Depending on what kind of day the manager was having it would vary from a load of verbal abuse to a bucket of freezing water.
She knew just what the bank manager would say as she approached her the bag lady knew a lot of things.
She knew that the manager was having an affair. The hushed calls to her lover leant against the wall in between lunch breaks to her lover furiously chain smoking then cheerful calls to her husband minutes later.
The bag lady never talked - she listened and she watched.
“What the hell have I told you,” hissed the bank manager. “Bucket of water for you in the morning! And don’t you even dare say it. You're the one who’s going to end up in front of a judge!” she hailed a passing cab then she was gone.
The bag lady finished picking up her belongings picked up the pieces of cardboard and tucked them into the side of her trolley. She took one last look at the cups then wearily started pushing her trolley through the slushy snow people everyone parting on the pavement to avoid her.
After a while she started to get tired and she stopped under a bus stop. The little blond girl from earlier sat slumped against the bus stop barely conscious. Vomit covered half her suit abandoned by her friend. The little old lady unbuttoned her top shirt pocket and took out a crisp £20 note she tucked it into the girls blazer pocket.
“You will be judged,” said the bag lady.
She gripped her trolley and started pushing it up the high street disappearing into a swirl of snow. Nobody knew where she came from, nobody knew where she went. Nobody cared.