Playing Chicken

On the drive home from East York after seeing their grandkids Mr and Mrs T. were in a fine mood. Mrs T was driving up the tree lined road connecting the lower Don River with the trendy upper town Yorkville. Suddenly a figure bolted from the undergrowth and ran across the street in front of them and dived into the bushes on the right side of the road.

Their car jerked and slowed as if expecting a police officer to follow this apparition. When the T’s passed the spot where the figure disappeared it was standing right at the edge of the road. Instinctively the car swerved to avoid an expensive insurance claim.

Mrs T. in shock exclaimed as she checked the rearview mirror, “Can you believe it! He’s running back to where he came from. He’s crazy”. Traffic doing down the hill to the Don was a constant stream.

“Holy smokes did you see his beard, mighty fine it was, He’s gotta be smoking something to be playing in the traffic like that. What ya think is going on with him then? Clearly he’s risking his life.” said Mr T.

The question hung unanswered, disturbing their sleep.

Mr T’s snoring didn’t help matters. Mrs T threw the covers off and went downstairs in her ‘jarmies and pink dressing gown. Over a cuppa she picked up her cellphone and began scrolling through the ‘what’s been going on’ news items. The normal boring things like Brexit and Lady Gaga’s “Shallow” success.

She gulped spilling the tea as she read, “Homeless man in intensive care has died tafter being struck by a hit-and-run vehicle.”

She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Mr T. get your bleedin’ bones down here. Ya won’t believe what’s happened!”

Over breakfast the T’s had some serious discussion which was unusual. The regular slurping sounds eminating from behind the morning paper drove Mrs T nuts to the point where she might do a hit-and-run number on Mr T but this morning was different.

The discussions extended into a late morning tea and cake break. Satisfied that they had solved half the world’s problems they went about the day’s chore’s.

The fly on the wall reported this:

“Mr T listen up now I must say this that when I was a working girl the company often had lunches brought in by caterers for meetings and most times there were leftovers that were put back in the fridge. By Fridays the fridge was cluttered with all kinds of food some beyond their best date. So one Friday I take this chicken pot pie and offer it to a homeless man huddled at a building entrance. He looked up at from under a dirty blanket and said…

“Nah I dinna eat them chickens ehh but I would love an ice cream if you could buy one for me then Misuss!

“I was speechless. Clearly he needed food but no it was ice cream that the poor devil hankered for. I just left the chicken beside him. Someone else might take it.” concluded Mrs T.”

“Ya know Mrs T there are hordes of homeless people all over this city. The police keep butting heads with them so they move around that’s why they are called homeless. “Hee hee” he chucked at his own wisdom.

“Do ya think I’m stupid Mr T? So tell me then why are there so many signs calling for “Help wanted”, “Hiring now – apply within.” Restaurants and places are desperate for help. Huh! Tell me why? why? why? If you are so wise.

“Mrs T the solution is simple. You take all the homeless folk and make them work in the restaurants and stuff and problem solved ehh”. No more Bailey’ ice cream for them. Hee hee!”

The fly heard that chuckle, descended drank some sips of tea, tasted the cake and then flew off to a homeless encampment to get the other side of the story.

#farce #homeless #satire