# 4

No! The hell with deep breaths. Who are they to judge me? Why should I feel guilty? I pay taxes. Not always on time, but I pay them. Those taxes provide help for the homeless - I've done my bit.

And what's so great about having a home? It's just a place to store bills. Phone bills. Electricity bills. Pay TV bills. The one time I'm lucky enough to find a fifty dollar note on the ground I'm supposed to hand it over to some homeless hobo? Well excuse me for changing the punchline to that sick joke! You may tsk tsk me, but we both know he'd just spend it on booze. Yes, it's wrong to think that, but it's not like I'd blame him. It's what I'd do if I didn't have so many bills. Although I guess I don't really need cable...

Great, now I'm actually starting to feel guilty. Stupid social experiment! Never mind, I'll make up for it. Some way, some how, I'll put this fifty dollar note to good use. I'll make it count.

I decided to take one last look back at the bogus beggar. And that's when something really weird happened.

#3

Or did I?

I slowed from a briskly paced power-walk to more of a casual stroll. Who was he to have me in such a huff? I'm bigger than that! Yeah, I'm gonna walk at the speed I choose! Ah, is that hobo looking at me? He's totally eyeing off my shoes. It's okay, just don't make eye contact again and you'll be fine... What the hell I said don't make eye contact! Yep, he's coming towards me now.

I broke into a jog.

Before I rounded the corner I looked back over my shoulder and saw the hobo--huh? Take off his hobo hair? And--oh great, start addressing a camera crew. Fantastic. A fucking social experiment. Dear God let it be for a small community television station...

Guess it could have been worse. At least I didn't full on spazz out and hysterically shriek, "These shoes are mine!!" and then run off flailing my arms.

I looked down at my feet and saw the edge of my fifty poking out. I pushed it back down again and tried to put the fake hobo and future humiliation behind me. Deep breaths...

# 2

By now you probably have a picture of me in your head. So, what am I? Young or old? Male or female? Or perhaps male and female? The shoe that now housed my fifty – do you see it as a sneaker, a loafer or high heel? Am I attractive? Rich? Maybe you're the sort that likes to argue that we can never truly know one another. But I want you to know me. So, what am I? Who am I?

The answers I'm afraid will have to wait. Because in this part of the story I looked down at my watch and realised I was running late. And on that dark afternoon, I knew I most certainly didn't want to keep The Man waiting.