Remember me

It is not always easy making a friendship last, when you’re from different parts of the society. We did not belong together. We did not belong in each other’s worlds. At least that was what we were told. But I didn’t give a damn about that. I thought our friendship would last a lifetime. Norman didn’t feel the same way. My name is Chuck and I live on the street. Yes, I know, I am homeless. I really don’t need any pity on that account. I want to tell you a story about a good friend of mine. My best friend. Or at least he used to be.

I was born on February 17th 1920, in East End in London. I was oldest of four siblings. My father was a blacksmith and my mother was the one keeping the household together. Even though they couldn’t afford to provide us with a lot of materialistic things, they always gave us love. They were the kindest hearted and loving people you’ll ever meet. I loved them to pieces. Shortly after my 9th birthday, my farther passed away. I can’t even describe to you, how devastated I was. That man was my hero. As a result of the sudden death of my father, my mother went down with a depression. She just layed completely still, and didn’t move. She refused to work, and you could just see the hatred in her eyes when she looked at me and my siblings. She had this idea that we were the reason behind the death of her husband, my father. To secure the survival of my family, I dropped out of school and started working at a factory. It was hard for me, a 9 year old boy at that time, to take that kind of responsibility, but I managed. Every day, on my way to work, I walked through the rich neighbourhood. I in particular remember this beautiful house, which stood out. It wasn’t just bigger; it was also more luxurious than the other houses on the street. The thing I remember most about the house though, it the little, chubby boy wearing big, round glasses. That was Norman. He sat there behind the fence and just looked at me. He didn’t say anything; he just sat there and stared. For months and months in a row, he just sat there and stared at me, on my way to work. Finally, I got tired of his constant staring, and actually started talking to him. And that conversation was the start of a beautiful friendship. Actually we didn’t leave each other’s side for about 17 years. His parents never approved of our friendship. In fact, they always hated me, they thought I was a ‘bum’ and didn’t deserve to play with their son. I wasn’t good enough. I really thought our friendship would overcome our different places in the society. But obviously it didn’t. Ultimately, we grew apart. Norman was turning to the life he always was meant to live. The filthy rich, arrogant, royal life filled with pressure from all around. And you couldn’t exactly say the same for me. I drank a little too much, laid with a bit too many girls and all in all didn’t really have any plans for my future. My mother was dead and my siblings long gone. In spite of this I managed to survive. Even though I am homeless, I love my life. I could never have survived in Norman’s world, and he could certainly never have survived in mine.