Crowd Pleaser (633 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 2 on 20 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by orph (View user info) at 2007-08-29 08:06:13 EDT
I first saw the man on the corner of a small lane leading off Shaftesbury Avenue, and proceeded to observe him.
My first impression of him was grey - hair, skin, and teeth. His clothes were a drab hue as well, and the dust and mud of the street clung to the deep creases of his overcoat and rough trousers. His marked and broken feet splayed out and over his holey shoes.
He was old too, at least fifty, which in this city is an achievement in itself. His beard was short, yet straggly, and tinged through with salt and pepper colouring, as was his hair, dirty and hanging lankly over his ears and forehead.
Given this, it is a wonder that I was drawn to him. I was taking my usual morning constitutional along the edge of St James Park, where already a crowd was milling, made up of dregs from the evening before. As I wandered through Piccadilly, up towards the Coach and Horses for the newspaper and coffee, I noticed him.
He sat inert amongst the rubbish heaped under the window of the tavern. At first I thought him a casualty of some sort of violence; such was his pallor and the awkward position in which he lay. His eyes stared blankly out into the street, seeing all yet registering nothing.
I stood studying him, and I'm still not sure why I did; he was nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly not someone whom I would usually consort with. Then it happened, and I was hooked.
London has ever been the city of the crowd and the mob. Many have likened walking the streets to taking a bath in humanity. The sweat and scent of all the classes mingles in a torpid, yet frenzied swill that flows through the lanes and byways. One such crowd of men had been gathering outside the theatres on the avenue this morning, and soon were seen hoisting placards and crying for the usual - more pay, less hours and better treatment from their employers; long suffering employers I ruminated.
As they passed my grey man, I swear I saw the jolt of energy pass from the mob to him. He was alive. He jumped to his feet and surged forward into the huddle. He found his voice and was soon at the front of the pack, cheering and jeering, and leading the chants of protest.
The metamorphosis was complete - from empty shell, from discarded marionette to a howling, protesting crowd pleaser in seconds. He danced and cried, jolted and encouraged his fellows as they marched down the avenue. He gave life, and seemed to get life from the mob.
As they hit the circus, the marching strikers merged, and then continued through the unwashed huddle that anxiously awaited this morning's offender to be placed in the pillories set up near the park entrance. A few tossed and hefted rotting fruits and other missiles in readiness.
The grey man caught sight of the new mob, and disengaged himself from the strikers, lurching to pick up broken rubbish and vegetable peelings from the cobbles as he went. Soon he was at the forefront, hurling abuse and rhetoric at the miserable wretch being led to the stocks. He exhorted the onlookers to check their aim, and recited the list of goings on that had brought the young miscreant to their pleasure this morning.
Once the soldiers had locked the unfortunate in the wooden shackles, they stepped back, announcing the hour's time limit that he would be detained. As the last word spilled from the sergeants lips, my grey man let fly with a limp cabbage, catching the petty thief square in the face. The crowd roared with delight, and lost no time in adding their own to the barrage.
Now public punishment is not usually my cup of tea, yet the grey man had me in his thrall. He seemed to embody the man of the street, he was the mob; singular to be sure, yet there was a piece of him inside them all. I must admit I got carried away with the moment, and may have even hoisted a tomato of my own.
The crowd waned and lost interest after a time; the young man proved no sport and wailed not at his treatment. The grey man too, seemed to languish, swaying to and fro as the mob dispersed. He looked lost and bewildered, and was knocked about by the hurrying people that swarmed the footpaths.
Miserably he tottered and stuttered and leant against a wall- his vitality spent. I could not pull my eyes away. Who was this man?
Now, given the size of this city, and the innumerable inhabitants, it is never quiet for very long. As I stood watching him, the familiar cry of 'Pickpocket!' rang in my ears. I turned and spied a young urchin zigzagging through the street, clutching a silken hanky and pocket-watch in his grubby little hands.
As I watched, I was shunted from behind, as the grey man took up the cry, yelling and screaming as he chased the boy. The chasers were many, all exhilarated by my grey man, as they chased the thief through Leicester Square and all the way down to Holborn. It was quite a run, and my breath came in gasps, as I too was again pulled along, inexplicably.
My man collared the young urchin, swiping the pilfered booty from his hands, and returned it to the owner. The gathered masses cheered him on, and he smiled and bowed at the thanks.
As they thinned out and went about their business, he again lost steam, only to fall in with a group of bankers on their way to the 'Change. They fussed and spouted over figures and timelines, gesturing and pointing out eventualities in their plans. He went along with them, plucking amounts from thin air, pushing them on, spreading rumour and nodding when asked for his sources.
They left him, as the other had. He melted back into the fabric of the street.
My daily timetable, as you can imagine, was now in tatters, given my aimless tracking and observation of him. I spent the remainder of the day as his shadow.
He lived for the mob, always falling from group to group, always the main protagonist, the primary agitator, and the others followed his lead. I never once saw him stop to eat or even quaff a wet ale to quench his thirst. His sustenance was the spark of the mob itself.
I was chained to him until nightfall, almost three of the clock I think it was, when at last the final drunken workers stumbled from the pubs and melted back to their homes.
He was again alone, empty.
I left him as I found him, tucked in amongst a pile of rubbish, leaning on a tavern wall. Without the crowds and people he became nothing again.
As I write these words, I think I have seen him before, yet never the same man, the same face, or the same voice. For that day, he was the spirit of the city, but tomorrow, it may well be another.
From the diary of Samuel Wilson, on this day, the 12th of September, in the year of our lord, 1635.
User Reviews
Submitted by sideshow (user info) at 2007-08-30 17:01:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I read this yesterday and forgot to rate. It was a good story, although it is too bad that it was not your first hand observations....
Submitted by Hairdo2000 (user info) at 2007-08-30 07:53:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Superb, excellent research of the Streets of London, Language is divine, description immaculate and includes period language, another H.G. Wells fan I do delcare? Superb!
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2007-08-29 23:57:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2007-08-29 20:32:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I honestly thought this was going to be about a gang bang.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2007-08-29 19:45:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
show me your hole
Submitted by DudeThatsBOSH (user info) at 2007-08-29 18:56:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i feel like i just got kicked in the neck!
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2007-08-29 18:15:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 orph
Submitted by zwerg (user info) at 2007-08-29 13:32:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2007-08-29 12:35:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
*speechless*
Submitted by DirtyHarry (user info) at 2007-08-29 12:34:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2007-08-29 11:22:07 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2007-08-29 11:00:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2007-08-29 10:22:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2007-08-29 10:08:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
har har shaft
I would have liked it a little better if the language was archaic.
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2007-08-29 09:22:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Apparently so.
Submitted by DrogoRoch (user info) at 2007-08-29 09:12:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
A good read. Good little tale
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2007-08-29 08:57:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
interesting, original idea. glad i read it.
Submitted by ShapeShifter (user info) at 2007-08-29 08:27:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Blimey.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2007-08-29 08:17:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2007-08-29 13:16:22 BST (#)
Ranking: 2
Heh, you said 'quaff'...
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He said 'Shaftesbury' in the first line!
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2007-08-29 08:16:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Heh, you said 'quaff'...
Seriously though, this was well written.
Maybe a bit dry, but still quite well done.