The Loner by David Daniels The wind howled past the tatty, sodden boots. A soft splatting could be heard as the early-morning rain pelted the sheet of dirty cardboard at the end of the long, thin legs. It could have been a grotesque imitation of a 'Guy' - it was early November. The cardboard jolted, as if pulled by a cord from above. A grubby, broken-nailed hand pulled the cardboard down. Francis M Donnelly, affectionately known as Percy (or Pompous Percy to complete the title) looked out sadly from a filthy, unshaven face, fronted by a broken nose, and highlighted by decaying stubs in a down-turned, pathetic mouth. As Percy rose unsteadily, a crisp morning sun peeked momentarily through a break in the clouds and pierced his emaciation cruelly. There was no quarter given to a vagrant, (or street-philosopher, as Percy liked to call himself), in Dublin, his home for ten years. He felt like - well, a down-and-out should feel, cold and miserable. Come on. He wandered, along the side street from the dingy hotel: his 'home' and set off, head bowed against the cold and drizzle along the southern reaches of Upper Leeson St. Damn! He'd missed Paddy: the newsagent across the way, would give Percy a selection of the previous day's newspapers, for bedclothes and reading matter, if he got there just before the shop opened for business. He'd slept in, seven a.m. - wasted. He crossed the canal, marvelling, as always, at the lock on the left, over the humped-back bridge and the bronze statue below; so lifelike. The rows of trees, standing sentry, on either side of the canal, were stark but beautiful, even at this time of year. Passing the students' beautiful townhouses on either side, albeit a little resentfully, he reached the safety of St Stephen's Green with relief: no threatening pushers or pimps in sight. Bad for business anyway. He was always amazed at how a street, which could be so active at night with pub crowds and fun-lovers, was transformed into a lifeless line in the early morning - as if all had been absorbed until the next outing; sure to be soon. A totally different place: greyness, not noticed at night was blatant at this time. An early, weekday morning found his two fellow 'philosophers', Thud and Geronimo lying on benches, on opposite sides of the path. Percy gave Thud a soft shake, which elicited a 'Gnnh', clearly audible. 'What --?' Thud, or Greg Thomas, rolled and fell in a heap of rags on the tarmac. A guttural stream of expletives issued forth. 'A beautiful day, no time to waste,' Percy smirked. 'Chief, the spirits are calling.' 'Chief no wake-up,' Geronimo mumbled. Percy's closest friend, if that accurately defined a companion in the suicidal, penniless world of life on the streets, was Dominic Two-Trees, a French-American Sioux cross, who spoke with the heavy accent of the redneck. A comical figure to strangers, he was proud and strong, unlike his sleeping companion. Thud, who got his name from his tendency to use his cranium as a mock weapon when an argument became heated, was a belligerent, bigoted former Ulsterman. The Irish question was a topic never discussed by the three, on account of the likely outcome - Percy's sympathies for the nationalists resulted in Geronimo having to frequently referee a wrangle between opposites. 'How's your hat?' Thud said, bleary-eyed. The cut-glass accent wasn't softened by semi-consciousness. A standard greeting for philosophers, this being the receptacle for their 'earned' livelihood. 'Fine, fine,' was the daily response. It started the day off properly though, and 'reset' any of the previous day's hang-ups. All three rose, almost regimentally and set off for their 'pitches' in Grafton St, the most fashionable and upmarket location in the city. The street cheered anyone entering, not because of the obvious moneyed articles resplendent in the shops, but the quality and cleanliness of it all: every stretch of pavement outside each shop was spotless, free of litter - each shop-owner ensured that his premises didn't fall below the standards presented by others. Percy smirked when he thought of this, O'Connell Street could not be more of a contrast, litter and dried-on road dirt-covered pavements and the lower halves of shop windows. The council's mechanical sweeps left a wavy trail in the mud and dust. Kind of strange that no one at Trinity had taken on the theme for an artistic challenge, a definite for the Tate, guaranteed acceptance. He might even offer himself as a still-life, stink the place out. A snigger couldn't be helped. 'Daydreaming again, typical. Get your head back into reality, man!' Thud, ever the realist, scowled and was stoutly ignored. Percy, tatty copy of Ulysses in his stained sports jacket, was point, with Geronimo a stocky, tall anchorman. Thud was middleman to keep him civil. The three looked totally incongruous, and were famous in the city centre, tolerated with amused, if slightly irritated apathy by the residents. All had their 'turns' - Percy sang a very irreverent 'Molly Malone', known to Dubliners, as 'the tart with the cart', (which formed the crux of the chorus): Thud shrieked, rather than sang an 'Ode to Carson', which comprised a series of verses, on the devils, Collins and de Valera: Geronimo performed a Sioux chant and dance. This was the only one he knew, having been sung to him, as a child, by his grandmother, appropriate enough for the occasion, being a song to the air spirits. Unfortunately, the dance was a prayer for rain. Positioned at fifty-yard intervals along the street, the city workers threw change, willy-nilly, into each hat, between laughs and caustic comments. 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