Someone told me the guy is just out of prison. I am afraid of him. His large, intimidating mouth, powerful and uncaring, brooding. His eyes focused on things beyond or above me, never seeing me. What was he in jail for?
While there, no doubt, he developed an interest in art. There was some room, there was an easel, there were paints. Then at night he went back to the room where he was confined and the lights were put out. This, his cell, became his kingdom: There he drew and painted. On release, he said in broad tongue he wanted to continue: And so he came here. He is large and moody, a past life of sorrow and difficulty.
The middle class is unknown to him, and exists on a different plane. The working class is unknown to them. And yet he sits in their midst. In dole offices I had seen his type, waiting to be seen, conversing amongst themselves loudly: Used to it. There too I was afraid of him. He lounges relaxed in a big chair, such as is used by staff, large and loutish, his scarred and tatooed hands open the sketchbook and find a blank page. His feet in white trainers. His short glossy hair, somehow intimidating. Legs open, confident. Lips pouting.
I despise and am jealous of the middle classes. I despise and am disgusted by the working classes. I am working class. I hate them all secretly and timidly, never allowing it to show. I pretend instead that I have found my place in the hierarchy. But my eyes see too much, they see it all and I recognise myself. I compare myself to them. I want to be middle class, and yet I hate them. I know I am working class, and yet I hate them.
Can I be a republic of one? No; I am working class, first, second and last.
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