027. ...radios not cider tramps...
(afternoon thinking)
Today I saw two people hurriedly and furtively kill the volume on walkie talkies. What's the chances of that? Same action, different places and circumstances, very different people.
The first time I'm on a park bench watching London tourists feed the birds and squirrels in St James Park.
It's loud by the pond. There's a shrill plastic racket as gawdy green parakeets argue with pigeons over low bass goose honks.
A weathered and jowley faced man rests a pint glass full of gently fizzing, green gold cider on the worn wooden arm of his park bench and stretches his feet too far into the path forcing a woman with a buggy to banana out into a cluster of geese. Neither party, mother or geese gaggle, seems much bothered.
He looks about one minor disaster from total humanity loss but harbours, alongside and about him, an intelligent dignity. The pint glass is an odd touch and I decide it speaks of his intent to maintain some decorum; he won't drink from a can this close to England's new King. I get that, I'm not a royalist but you have to have standards. He's a bit shambly but holding it together. I watch from the corner of my eye, waiting for him to raise his glass so I can snap a cool portrait. I think the sun behind his head might be caught in the cider bubbles. If it looks super good I can strike up a conversation by offering to email it to him. He doesn't look like he has Instagram.
A brass band booms and parps up into action in the far distance, startling some tourists but not the waterfowl. They're part of the performance. Someone plays a duff note and the music stops abruptly.
In the comparative silence of the moment a walkie talkie very nearby clicks on, makes insistent static commentary. Cider Man lifts a little Motorola GP328 from the inside pocket of his fleece lined Regatta parka and turns the volume nob sharply, silencing the chat. Now I notice that his wheeled shopping bag shows no sign of wear and the soles of his hiking boots are pristine too. He hasn't touched his cider! I wonder if the park between Downing Street and Buckingham Palace is hoaching with undercover secret police. I consider saying something subversive for a laugh.
Later in a gallery cafe near Euston Station an off duty guard, in charcoal blazer and slacks takes a break, slouches at the table across from us. A Motorola GP328 walkie-talkie sits on the corner of the table. Peeled off loafers on the marble floor below her seat are squashed under released feet. Toes in black socks flex and reach toward the ceiling. She spoons something from a jar with a tea spoon that doesn't match the one resting unused on the saucer beside my coffee cup. Brought from home. The jar's label says, "assorted tomatoes with cranberries" I've not seen this combo before. Her walkie-talkie stutters and someone says the name that matches her lapel badge. Marina quickly turns the dial to off with a familiar sharp twist, picks up the jar lid and screws it tight shut before placing this first jar in a cloth tote bag from which she pulls a second; chopped black olives from the same deli brand. She tucks in, showing no sign of letting the radio summons interfere with her break. I Google the brand and discover that Nezhin Cannery have been making Ukraine and the world happier since 1927 through quality canned (and jarred) produce. Marina's expression hasn't changed so it's hard to get a read on whether her preserved lunch makes her happy.
The phrase "glitch in the matrix" comes to mind. Two walkie talkies similarly clicked off with practiced flicks of thumb and forefinger. Only so many algorithmic actions for non playable characters. I notice myself eyeing the rim of a familiar simulation theory rabbit hole.
I remind myself that everyone's noticing details and notes of familiarity, repeated bars and popular refrains within their day. Coincidence and deja vu. If this is a simulation there's an awful lot of very rich detail.
I got an email recently from Asib, the coordinator on my last job, asking if anyone had accidentally left with a radio as there were 4 radios and a BUNCH of accessories missing. Please check your vehicle's and kit bags. They're the radio of choice for film crews, event staff, museum and gallery security and, as it turns out secret undercover police posing as cider tramps.
You see these on eBay all the time - radios not cider tramps - lots of people use them. Lots of people turn them off. I used to turn my radio off or right down to escape the constant chatter and demands of chaotic film production.
The weekend has been chaotic and overstimulating and I recognise that I haven't given myself a lot of time to decompress. Unstack the triggers.
I'm on the train home to Edinburgh with my noise cancelling earbuds blocking out troublesome frequencies and feeding me soothing binaural beat bird song. Every mile homeward feels kind.
Is this the kind of thing people subscribe to? Would you? Please yourself.
“Cider tramp” isn't a wonderfully compassionate phrase. I've become reasonably well aquatinted with some homeless guys and I understand the complexities and anxieties they face. Homelessness isn't a joke.