They stood like three stooges, unaware of wondering eyes that locked onto them. The nameless men spoke gently, as murmurs of importance echoed softly around the park grounds. I looked at them, yet could not look away. But, such a sight was most peculiar as we had been living in pandemic times, shackled by refrain and virtue. You see, this petite park was a refuge for folk like us, constantly searching yet never settled in one spot. The Homeless, The Beatnik and the Middle Man was what I called them. Such callous names I'd acquired for them was not out of spite, but more so out of the visible narrative of what was openly occurring in front of my very eyes. As I watched, a deal was being penned in the cold day of light. The Middle Man, confident and defiant stood a-fixed to the spot and dealt out street lingo that made him as formidable as the warlords themselves. The Beatnik did not contest to his instructions, nor would he dare. And The Homeless stood agape and perplexed as he merely awaited for his evening fix.
Such a candid sight, one thought.
The police arrived only minutes later, revving their engine whilst catching the park folk off guard. The *******, now struggling to put 1+1 together hurriedly exchanged business dealings in the form of sterling for blow. It was over in a matter of seconds. The atmosphere had then become most quiet as only the tweets and low barks of innocent animals had laid bare the scene. I slowly gathered my composure and adjusted my posture once again. And after sighing a great sigh, all I could genuinely think about was The Homeless, The Beatnik and The Middle Man had forever gone. Disappeared, as if from time itself.
A candid recollective memory of a drug transaction in a public park
