James and Gilly; a Tale of Privilege and Perspective

02-03-2024

It was a cold dark night, but not very late at all. I had just finished a hot drink and some warm food at a cafe for dinner after a full tour of the Scottish highlands and was returning to my hostel to ‘call it a night’.

As I passed James sitting in the corner under a blanket with his precious dog Gilly, I wondered if he had positioned himself next to the Tesco ATM so that if people said they have no spare change, he could point out the flaw in their reasoning.

As I walked on, the next question in my mind was of his age. He really didn’t seem like he was older than myself. Likely 20. I was right; 20 in April.

I kept walking. An idiot for not wearing a thicker shirt under my jacket. The cold was biting. I walked on, but my mind was stuck on James; how long had he been there? Surely he’s colder than I. And did I really just spend £10 on a hot drink and a wrap. I must go back and at least see if he’s eaten.

As I turn to walk back to him, doubt fills my mind; the last time I offered to help a homeless man, he turned out to be severely mentally disabled, and I ended up in a very uncomfortable situation. What if James isn’t homeless at all and is actually just a highschool kid running a con? What if he takes advantage of me? What if…

...What if no one helps him.

I pass him for the third time, hoping the Tesco guard isn’t suspicious of my pacing. The fourth time, I pluck up the courage, then lose it again when James looks up. I do a lap of the block, sick to the stomach for no good reason. 'Maybe I’ll just return to my hostel, what can I give this guy anyway?'.

Then I hear 'did you feed the hungry and clothe the naked Callan?'

I’m not sure about the naked, but I fed the hungry! With £10 of Pret a Manger thank you very much!

Fifth time’s a charm (for the coward). I stand over James and ask him if he’s had any dinner, he says no. 'What would you like?' And then I realise how awkward it must be for him to ask for something from someone he doesn’t know. I insist anyway. He takes up the offer for some Taco Bell hot chips. Somehow I’m aware that he has deliberately picked one of the cheapest items on the menu, so as not to ‘put me out’.

The serving size is ridiculous. I get three serves; God knows James could probably eat seven or eight, but he humbly lies and says he’s full. ‘Chips, and a bottle of water for Gilly my dog if you don’t mind please’ says James. I finally persuade him to let me get some more food for Gilly and him.

By the time I return, the chips are gone. I don’t know his name yet, so he introduced himself; James. A mighty fine name, for a mighty fine young man. I find it in me to squat down, and even, god-forbid, sit on that filthy bit of ground next to James. Look at what a humble servant I am, sitting in the filth in the only pair of trousers I brought. Gold star for Callan.

We chat for a couple of minutes, until I run out of things to say. So I make an excuse. I don’t even have the thought to show some decency and shake his hand. So he shakes mine, and I’m gone.

But I can’t sleep in a warm bed tonight. I don’t dare. How very dare I. 

How dare I spend hundreds of dollars galavanting the countryside. How dare I pick the olives off a pizza because ‘they’re not my favourite’. How dare I run late because I can’t decide which of my warm clothes to wear. How dare I…when James.

When James will sit there until 11:30pm before using the coins it’s taken him all day to collect to board the last bus out of town to an old heroin-abusing friend, because it’s the only contact he has that will give him a roof over his head for a few nights.

It doesn’t add up. It’s not right. I can’t justify it. I’m angry, no, furious. How very dare I. Confused and alone, I have no one to help me make sense of it. But James has no one to help him either.

I talk to my friend on the phone who consoles me by suggesting that ‘hostel cries’ are some of the best.

I wipe my tears, put my shoes back on and head back out.

But by now it’s somehow colder, and I don’t know what more I can offer James and Gilly. I just want him to have a home and a job and some friends and some love and a purpose, but I’m powerless. All I have with me is my privilege.

When I see him in the same place I left him, I fumble through the speech I prepared. And sat myself down; entering into James’ classroom on the street corner there.

We talked, and I finally learnt to listen. He told me of his life; of his father who died of heroin overdosed before James was 10. Of his mother, who couldn’t pay her supplier and so was given poisoned drugs that killed her a week before James’ 14th birthday. Or was it a week after? He couldn’t quite remember. ‘Some memories are just gone, like amnesia or something’. Your beautiful brain is doing its best to protect you, dear James. The police ruled her death as an overdose too, ‘but we all know it was murder’.

So go on Callan, what was it you wanted to say? What was it you wanted to gift to this boy? What was it you wanted to do so that you could pat yourself on the back and sleep soundly knowing you ‘did your part’. Go on. I’ll wait.

James went on. Told me about his treasure, Gilly. His mum gave her to him. Named her too. ‘Not many people know what a Ghillie suit is, they mustn’t have played COD before, so I just tell them she’s named after the Gillyflower. Truth is, I don’t really know where the name comes from, Mum just named her.’

As James went on, my pride began stabbing me in the heart. Kind of like how he was stabbed last year by a ‘mate’. He’d do anything for that special dog, even get shivved in the side and cut on the face. 

James is wiser than me, and smarter than I’ll ever be. ‘It’s the simple things ay. Out here you learn to appreciate the simple things.’

James goes on, as my hard, rich heart breaks further. Is there nothing I can do to help. I have so much, but what will actually be useful? Will money even help? You’re never supposed to give money to "people like this”.

But James has the smarts. The street smarts. Even if addiction’s nasty claws have grabbed him, he tells me Gilly is his life, his purpose. He must look after her. ‘And you know, I can’t do that if I don’t look after myself. So I look after myself so that I can look after her.’

‘How much money would like?’ Came the next stupid question out of my rich, stupid mouth. ‘Ay, it’s not about want, it’s about need, isn’t it’ he reminds me. ‘I’ll be grateful for anything you can afford to give, but you gotta live too, so it’s about how much you can give, not about how much I want’.

I use the ATM. We hug, for what seems like a long time (even though I know it could've been longer).

Early tomorrow morning I leave the city, back to London. I won’t see James or Gilly again, likely ever. I wish I could bring them with me, home. To a home.

But I can’t.

--- 

Postscriptum

Inspired by an idea in a sermon my Aunty once gave in which she compared her mother ‘stooping’ to help her brother and Jesus stooping down to us, I went back to my room and wrote ‘Stoop’.

N.B. I really truly don’t like swearing; it’s cheap and fowl and it’s just not my way. So I will warn you that there is one expletive in it, and perhaps that will offend some, but it is what I wrote in the moment, because it’s the only way I could express how I felt at the time.

Epilogue

So what do you do now Callan? Did you collect your gold star? Do you ‘feel better’ now that you got that off your chest?

If you must know, no. I feel worse.

Now I get to go back to my flat. I get to ride the tube. I get to go back to my job on Monday morning. I get to go to church. I get to see my friends. I get to ring my parents.

What does James get? Nothing and no one.

Promise me James, you’ll look after yourself. Please promise me that. And I promise to do whatever I can to use the beautiful, undeserved gift you gave me James: Perspective.

Related Word Art: Stoop

And My people shall be satisfied with My goodness, says the LORD.

Jeremiah 31:14