Emmaus

I had lived and worked at the French charity for homeless people called Emmaus for six months. The charity would take in donations from the public, miscellaneous items like, clothing, books, art, furniture, fridges, ovens, appliances and we would sell them in the five stores on the high street of our local SE London town. 

 

The charity was structured as standard in a hierarchical pyramid that consisted of layers made up of; volunteers, companions, drivers, and staff. I was a companion, we were of mixed races and nationalities, backgrounds, and experiences. We would make £70 a fortnight in wages, but we needn't buy food as most of it was donated by companies like Fairshare et al and we were provided with three meals a day and a large biscuit tin that our Asian floor manager referred to as "Satan". Occasional banter would centre around the "Emmaus belly," this in part could be attributed to "Satan", or the biscuit tin depending on one's preference, and I would always notice that when former companions came back to the house to visit us, they had become slim, lean and trim figures in comparison to how they had been before leaving. 

 

Sometimes I would work on the van crew and we would deliver items of furniture to people's homes, we would also collect items that people wished to donate if they were in a salable condition, we would frequently turn items down if there were stains, or tears, or if there were no fire labels. Working on the vans could be hard work and I began to model it as a form of free gym membership, one knew one had performed a workout upon awakening the following morning, one's muscles burned.

 

I worked in several roles, and overtime I became referred to as "The new go-to man". I think I liked working in the Boutique best, we sold Bric-a-brac, but also books, sofas and beds, and I was able to strike up a good rapport with the customers, the Afro-Caribbean ladies seemed to particularly like me, if they asked for your name with a twinkle and a smile, they liked you, if they gave you their phone number on a slip of paper, they really liked you. There seemed to be more good people than not, and I only had one awkward and difficult customer the entire duration of my work and stay, he appeared very mean spirited to me and with single minded determination wanted to get me the sack. This I learned from one of the other companions was something he had succeeded in doing with a former companion who was subsequently made homeless for his troubles. It seemed it was maybe an avenue a small person who lacked power could go the route of to acquire power over others. 

 

When I first began working in the Boutique I was often inundated by paparazzi in disguise and one had to figure out which-was-which and who-was-who and what paper did they represent? One day the former Home Secretary and her Bodyguard came into the store unannounced and without formal introduction, she sat on a green-kneeling-chair in front of the cash desk and I said, "You could take that to Mosque and get a front row seat, you get a better view of God, he'll grant you more favour". I didn't recognise who she was until some months later.

 

I worked 40 hours a week, I liked the job, I had a major crush on my African-Portuguese manager, at Christmas we hugged one another, it was probably the highlight of a dreary year filled with trials and tribulations, and I wanted to kiss her, but didn't, and occasionally we would hold hands. I made friends with several of the companions whilst I was there and sometimes we would talk on an evening, occasionally staying up into the small hours, but after the first week I was only late for work one time. My female Asian friend would often chant, "Justin Case, Justin Case, you are such a happy man, I can tell".

 

It was said that I spoke in riddles, been able to see through the media manipulation game was complicated, initiating people into the knowledge can be a slow and laborious process, too-much-too-soon-too-fast and one loses them. I was often silent. General chit-chat around the complex was centred around official newsmedia, like TV and radio and I often had the underlying answers, the secret key to these. I would listen to opinions in silence, but not without a certain personal frustration. "Something's going down in Salisbury," said one, and "There has to be something in that Mueller report," said another.They say no to Vicky's new chocs! Russia is not Russia! The head honcho of our complex said during the bi-monthly Wednesday morning meeting, "We'll be introducing smoking bans into your rooms, starting from April, after Grenfell Tower we just can't take any chances". 

 

One of the house companions would call me "Assange", he had been calling me "Hemingway,"  but afterwards I became "Assange". I would tell him, "Assange and Snowden aren't saying even a quarter as much as me," and he would look at me skeptically, "The newsmedia only promote through exposure the ones they want you to read. Assange and Snowden are the illusion you have in-house dissidents in chief. They really say nothing". Before I left Emmaus I totally book-bombed the place; without evidence, you're just a man with an opinion.  

 

In a democracy the government and media take their legitimacy and power from the people. These two agencies are the very last in a society that should be lying to the people. No more lies! No more secrets! People treated with dignity and respect! People treated as adults! We are not America - The Anti-Illuminati Party! (Our symbol is two elbows). 

 

Upon first arriving at Emmaus I was amazed to discover the charity organisation's symbol was of the hand and dove. Without foreknowledge of this it had been a drawing of the hand and dove I had sketched the previous year that the Illuminati had interpreted as a foot, and the neck of the bird as a big toe that came back the next day through the practical jokers of the BBC's news-like-media department as Mrs Clinton breaking her toe in London. 

 

Now, one of the companions had lived in California years earlier, and worked with bands such as the Smashing Pumpkins and U2, he showed me a Youtube video clip of himself getting up on stage with Sam Fox and I mentioned this on Twitter and the next day, my online antagonist, the pop-star Madonna posted an image of her bare breast, like a page-three girl's, and a man was dancing on stage with her, the caption to her post read, "Life is a cabaret old chum". After a few days I decided to tell the companion about Madonna by demonstrating some of the synchronies between her posts and mine and within no time at all people kept calling me a "friend of Madonnas".  

 

"Hey, Bieber, I 'ear your friend's coming to town," said one of the drivers. 

"Uh! Friend?"

"Yeah, your friend Madonna's gonna tour".

"She's not my friend". 

 

And my female Asian friend said, "I was told you're a friend of Madonnas?" and I looked at her standing before me and I said, "I'm sorry, I'm not her friend". She had seemed hopeful and now looked disappointed, "... but (such-and-such) said you were her friend?" 

""We're not friends, we don't get on, I'm sorry, she's not a very pleasant person". 

"I like Madonna," she said. 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

 

Madonna has lied about me terribly. I'm not the person she thinks me as, too much is too much. The constant threats from her, the media, and the Emmaus belly, meant that I had to get away from town. I'd saved £600 and bought a National Express coach ticket to Amsterdam for £21 due to set out from London Victoria. This was to be my means of getting into Europe, I was going to hike and camp, see all of those historical places I'd longed to see whilst sitting at my computer screen in the states. I also made an online reservation for a Eurolink ticket to Barcelona for £60. The flights into Europe had been too expensive to travel to when I was in America, in accordance with the wishes of the closed communist West Coast culture, one didn't need exit visas. 

 

I booked the ticket to travel into Europe for Valentine's Day evening, but the previous night I was already having second thoughts when I received an inbox message telling me that Bob Brown had died. Hadn't I said to him years earlier, "If you're going to die, make sure it's a symbolical day"? One half of "Terry and Judy" had died and I found out in the closing hours of Valentine's Day! What were the chances?! 

 

"He's definitely dead," I was told, "Sepsis! He bought s**t loads of Amphetamine, I heard, and had a seven day bender". 

 

I had been put off the thought of travelling to Europe after having seen the Mail online's article featuring Harry and Meghan where they had apparently visited the National History Museum for an exhibition called, "The Wider World". The meaning of the metaphor seemed too obvious and apparent to me. The celebrity couple had also appeared to look very pleased with themselves before the community, in the background of the photograph was a car with the license plate, "Yah," and in one of the photographs from the event Harry appeared to be taking a ticket from out of a dragon's mouth. They knew of my intention. As I scrolled further down the Mail's main page, Prince William, ever fast becoming as creepy as his father has always been, was photographed at a homeless charity event cutting orange carrots, the headline to that article stated, "This is going to be easy".

 

I had decided to forfeit my ticket and instead visit Wakefield before receiving the inbox message informing me about Bob Brown. I was asked, "Why don't you come to Wakefield? I'd love to see you, you're always welcome here," and "I'm sure Jib would like to see you". 

 

I spoke in riddles. "I'm going to Europe," I said. I went to Wakefield.