He sweeps the streets where I live. Years ago we would have called him a roadsweeper. Now, of course, that would be terribly un-PC (despite the fact that it would still be 100% literally accurate) and I'm sure his official job-title will be something like "Urban Environmental Cleansing Officer" or some such convoluted mouthful.
People, as a rule, have little respect for their environment these days, at least not in the city. Walking the pavements has become an obstacle course, dodging the chip trays, lager cans and free-issue newspapers that pepper the flags. Any attempt to improve the situation is an exercise in futility. And yet day after grimy day he sweeps, picks up and deposits in his bin the countless items of grot dropped by a thousand disregarding citizens. Season after season passes, his yellow hi-visibility tabard almost the only constant in the shifting street-scape.
He wears headphones, constantly. Every hour of every day, he wears headphones. That's the reason--I'm sure you've guessed--why I nicknamed him "Mister Music Man." Many times have I watched him from my second-floor window as he works his way along, wondering what on earth it is he listens to. The reality is that it's probably Five Live, or 70s rock music.
But I like to think that perhaps, just perhaps, if one day I were to pass close enough to him, I might hear escaping from those padded 'phones a Puccini aria, a Tchaikovsky ballet, a Beethoven piano sonata. I like to imagine that against the crap and crud of his daily battles, he pitches the beauty and sublimity of classical music: an antidote to the filth and the ugliness, a reminder that humanity has within it such transcendent possibilities. Maybe one day I'll ask him what he listens to. But then again, maybe I won't. I think I'd rather continue my little fantasy than lift up an earphone and discover that it's just the football scores.
1 comment:
imagination :-)
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