by James Bowen
I couldn’t resist looking inside to see if there was any sign of the ticket officers who’d given me grief in the past. Sure enough, I saw one of them, a big, sweaty fat guy in a blue shirt. He was too tied up to notice me at this stage but I knew that he would at some point.
In the meantime, I got on with the job of trying to shift my ten copies of the Big Issue.
I knew they’d given me this pitch because, as far as normal Big Issue sellers were concerned, it was a nightmare. The entrance and exit of a tube station is not a place where people usually have the time to slow down and engage with someone trying to sell them something. They are in a hurry, they have got places to go, people to see. A normal Big Issue seller would have done well to stop one in every thousand people that raced past him or her. It would have been a thankless task. During my time busking across the street, I’d spent enough time watching a succession of vendors try and fail to catch people’s attention there to know the reality.
But I also knew that I wasn’t a normal Big Issue seller. I had a secret weapon, one that had already cast his spell on Covent Garden. And he was soon weaving his magic.
I’d put Bob down on the pavement next to me where he was sitting contentedly watching the world go by. A lot of people didn’t notice him as they flew past on their mobile phones, fishing inside their pockets for their tickets. But a lot of people did.
Within moments of me setting up, a couple of young American tourists had pulled up to a halt and started pointing at Bob.
‘Aaaah,’ one of them said, immediately reaching for her camera.
‘Do you mind if we take a picture of your cat?’ the other one asked.
‘Sure, why not?’ I said, pleased that, unlike so many people, they’d had the decency to ask. ‘Would you like to buy a copy of the Big Issue while you’re at it. It will help him and me get some dinner tonight.’
‘Oh sure,’ the second girl said, looking almost ashamed that she’d not thought of it.
‘It’s no problem if you don’t have the money,’ I said. ‘It’s not compulsory.’
But before I could say anything else she’d given me a five-pound note.
‘Oh, I’m not sure I’ve got any change. I’ve literally just started,’ I said, feeling flustered myself now. I know a lot of people think Big Issue sellers routinely say this, but I genuinely didn’t have much in my pockets. When I counted it out, I had just under a pound in shrapnel in my pocket and handed that over to her.
‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘Keep the change and buy your cat something nice to eat.’
As the American girls left, another group of tourists passed by, this time Germans. Again, they started cooing over Bob. They didn’t buy a magazine, but it didn’t matter.
I knew already that I’d have no trouble selling the ten copies. In fact, I might even be heading back to Sam for some more stock before the end of the day.
Sure enough I sold six copies within the first hour. Most people gave me the correct money but one elderly gent in a smart, tweed suit, gave me a fiver. I was already feeling vindicated in making this move. I knew I wouldn’t always fare this well and that there would be ups and downs. But I already felt like I’d taken a big step in a new direction.
It had been a pretty good day already, but the icing on the cake came after I’d been there for about two and a half hours. By now I was down to my last two magazines. I was suddenly aware of a bit of a commotion inside the station. All of a sudden a small group of London Underground staff appeared in the concourse in full view of me. They seemed to be deep in conversation about something and one or two of them were on walkie-talkies.
My mind couldn’t help going back to what had recently happened to me. I wondered whether there had been another incident and whether some other poor sap was going to be fitted up for a crime that he hadn’t committed.
Whatever the panic was, however, it soon passed and they began to disperse. It was then that the large, sweaty figure of the ticket attendant spotted me and Bob outside the station. He immediately marched in our direction.
He looked hassled and hot tempered and was as red as a beetroot in the face. They say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold, so I decided to stay cool.
‘What the f*** are you doing here?’ he said. ‘I thought you’d been locked up. You know you’re not supposed to be here.’
I didn’t say anything at first. Instead, very slowly and deliberately, I flashed him my Big Issue badge.
‘I’m just doing my job, mate,’ I said, savouring the mixture of bewilderment and anger that immediately began spreading across his face. ‘I suggest you get on with yours.’
Chapter 13
Pitch Perfect
I hadn’t got many decisions right in my life. Whenever I’d been given an opportunity in the past ten years I’d screwed things up big time. Within a couple of days of deciding to become a Big Issue seller, however, I was pretty sure that I’d taken a step in the right direction for once.
It had an immediate impact on life for me and Bob. For a start it gave us more structure. I effectively had a Monday to Friday job, well, a Monday to Saturday one, in fact.
For those first two weeks, Bob and I worked at Covent Garden from Monday to Saturday, which tied in with the publication of the magazine. The new edition would come out each Monday morning.
We’d be there from sometime in the middle of the morning, and often finish at the end of the early evening rush hour, which was around 7p.m. We stayed for as long as it took us to sell a batch of papers.
Being with Bob had already taught me a lot about responsibility but the Big Issue took that to another level. If I wasn’t responsible and organised I didn’t earn money. And if I didn’t earn money Bob and I didn’t eat. So from that very first fortnight, I had to grasp how to run my Big Issue pitch as a business.
For someone whose life had been completely disorganised for the best part of ten years, this was a huge leap. I’d never been great with money, and had to live from hand to mouth. I surprised myself with the way I adapted to the new demands.
There were downsides, of course, there were bound to be. There is no sale or return with the Big Issue so I learned quickly that if you miscalculated the amount of magazines, you could lose out quite badly. You can take a serious blow if you are stuck with fifty papers on Saturday night. Come Monday, you get no credit against the next purchase from the old magazines, so the old papers are pulp. At the same time, you didn’t want to under buy. Too few and you’d sell out too quickly and miss out on willing buyers. It was no different from running Marks and Spencer’s – well, in theory.
The other thing you had to factor in was that there was a huge difference in the quality of the magazines from week to week. Some weeks it would be a good issue packed with interesting stuff. Other weeks it would be quite dull and really hard to sell, especially if the cover didn’t have some famous film or rock star on it. It could be a bit unfair.
It took a while to get the balance right.
While I was working out the best way to sell the Big Issue, I still lived from hand to mouth. What I earned between Monday and Saturday evening was generally gone by Monday morning. Sometimes at the start of each week I’d turn up at the coordinator’s stand with only a few quid. If Sam was there I’d ask her to do me a favour and buy ten papers for me on the understanding I’d pay her back as soon as I had some money. She would usually do this for vendors who she knew she could trust to repay her and I had done this once or twice before when I was desperate and always repaid her within hours. I knew the money was coming out of her pocket, not the Big Issue’s, so it was only fair.
Then when I had sold those copies I’d go back and pay off what I owed and get some more papers. I’d build it up that way from there.
As a result of this, in real terms, I was actually making less money than I had been busking with Bob. But as I settled down into this new routine, I decided it was a price worth paying. The fact that I was working legitimately o
n the streets made a huge difference to me. If I got stopped by a policeman, I could produce my badge and be left in peace. After the experience with the Transport Police that meant a lot.
The next couple of months working at the tube station flew by. In many ways it was similar to busking. We’d attract the same sort of people: a lot of middle-aged and elderly ladies, groups of female students, gay guys but also people from all walks of life.
One day during the early part of the autumn of 2008 we were approached by a very flamboyant-looking guy. He had bleached-blond hair and was wearing jeans, cowboy boots and I could tell that the leather jacket and jeans must have cost a fortune. I was sure he was an American rock star; he certainly looked like one.
As he’d walked along, he had immediately spotted Bob. He stopped in his tracks and smiled.
‘That’s one cool cat,’ he said, in a sort of transatlantic drawl.
He looked really familiar but I couldn’t for the life of me place him. I was dying to ask him who he was, but thought it was rude. I was glad I didn’t.
He spent a minute on his knees just stroking Bob.
‘You guys been together long?’ he asked.
‘Uhhmm, gosh, let me think,’ I said, having to work it out. ‘Well we got together in the spring of last year, so it’s about a year and a half now.’
‘Cool. You look like real soul brothers,’ he smiled. ‘Like you belong together.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, by now desperate to know who the hell this guy was.
Before I could ask him he got up and looked at his watch.
‘Hey, gotta go, see you guys around,’ he said, reaching into a pocket in his jacket and producing a wad of cash.
He then dropped a tenner into my hand.
‘Keep it,’ he said, as I began to rummage around for change. ‘You guys have a good day.’
‘We will,’ I promised him. And we did.
It made such a difference that I was now working outside the tube station legitimately. I’d had a couple of moments with some of the familiar faces from the tube station again, one or two of whom had given me some filthy looks. I’d ignored them. The rest of the staff there were actually fine. They knew I was getting on with my job and as long as I didn’t offend or harass anyone, that was fine.
Inevitably, Bob and I had also got a bit of attention from other Big Issue vendors in the area.
I wasn’t so naive as to think that everything was going to be all sweetness and light with the other vendors and assorted street workers. Life on the streets wasn’t like that. It wasn’t a community built on caring for each other, it was a world in which everyone looked after number one. But, to begin with, at least, most of the other Big Issue sellers reacted warmly to the sight of the new guy with a cat on his shoulders.
There had always been vendors around with dogs. One or two of them had been real characters. But, as far as I was aware, there had never been a Big Issue seller with a cat in Covent Garden – or anywhere else in London - before.
Some of the vendors were rather sweet about it. A few of them came up and started stroking him and asking questions about how we met and what I knew about his background. The answer, of course, was nothing. He was a blank slate, a mystery cat, which seemed to endear everyone to him even more.
No one was interested in me, of course. The first thing they’d say when they saw us again was ‘How’s Bob today?’ No one ever asked how I was. But that was OK, that was to be expected. I knew the air of bonhomie wouldn’t last. It never did on the streets.
With Bob at my side I discovered that I could sell as many as thirty or even fifty papers on a good day. At £2 a paper, as they were priced back then, it could add up quite well, especially with the tips that some people gave me – or, more usually, Bob.
One early autumn evening, Bob was sitting on my rucksack, soaking up the last of the day’s sun, when a very well-heeled couple walked past the tube station. To judge by their outfits they were heading for the theatre or maybe even the opera. He was wearing a tuxedo and a bow tie and she had a black silk dress on.
‘You two look very smart,’ I said, as they stopped and started drooling over Bob.
The lady smiled at me but the guy ignored me.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ the lady said. ‘Have you been together for a long time?’
‘Quite a while,’ I said. ‘We kind of found each other on the streets.’
‘Here you go,’ the guy said, suddenly pulling out his wallet and removing a twenty-pound note.
Before I could even reach into my coat to fish out some change, he’d waved me away. ‘No that’s fine, keep it,’ he said, smiling at his companion.
The look she gave him spoke volumes. I had a feeling they were on a first date. She had clearly been impressed by him giving me that much money.
As they walked off I noticed her leaning into him and wrapping her arm into his.
I didn’t care whether it was genuine or not. It was the first time I’d ever been given a twenty-pound drop.
After a few more weeks of trying out the spot at the tube station, I realised that - far from being a ‘bad’ pitch - the tube station was actually ideal for me and Bob. So I was disappointed when Sam told me that having finished my probation period I would be moving to another pitch at the end of the fortnight.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise. The thing about being a member of the Big Issue vendor community is that everyone can see how well each other is doing. When the vendors go to the coordinator they can see who has been buying what quantities on a list that’s there for everyone to see. You can read it and spot who has been buying papers in batches of tens and twenties and how many batches they are buying. So during that first fortnight, they would have seen that I was buying a lot of magazines.
It soon became obvious that it was something that had been spotted by some of the other vendors. In that second week I noticed a subtle but definite change in the attitude towards me.
I wasn’t at all surprised when Sam told me that I’d ended my probation and would now be moved to a different pitch. Our new location wasn’t a long way from the tube station, on the corner of Neal Street and Short’s Gardens, outside a shoe shop called Size.
I got the distinct feeling that the older hands had taken a dislike to me and Bob and hadn’t taken too kindly to us doing so well out of what was supposed to be a bad pitch. For once, however, I buttoned my lip and accepted it. Choose your battles, James, I counselled myself.
It turned out to be good advice.
Chapter 14
Under the Weather
It was a cold and wet autumn that year. The trees were soon being stripped of their foliage as the cold winds and heavy rains began to build. On one particular morning, as Bob and I left the block of flats and set off for the bus stop, the sun was once more nowhere to be seen and a light, fine drizzle was falling.
Bob wasn’t a big fan of the rain so at first I assumed it was to blame for the lethargic way in which he began padding his way along the path. He seemed to be taking each step at a time, almost walking in slow motion. Maybe he’s got second thoughts about joining me today, I said to myself. Or maybe it was true what they said about cats being able to sense bad weather in the air. As I cast an eye up to the sky, a giant bank of steely, grey clouds were hovering over north London like some vast, alien spaceship. It was probably going to be like this all day. There was almost certainly some heavier rain on its way. Maybe Bob was right and we should turn around, I thought for a second. But then I remembered the weekend was coming and we didn’t have enough money to get through it. Beggars can’t be choosers - even if they have been cleared of all charges, I said to myself, trying to make light of the predicament.
I was never happy to be working on the streets of London but today it seemed an even bigger pain in the butt than usual.
Bob was still moving at a snail’s pace and it had taken us a couple of minutes to get a hundred yards down the road.
‘Come on, mate, cl
imb aboard,’ I said, turning around and ushering him up into his normal position.
He draped himself on my shoulder and we trudged off towards Tottenham High Road and the bus. The rain was already intensifying. Fat, heavy drops of water were bouncing off the pavement. Bob seemed fine as we sploshed our way along, ducking under any available shelter as we went. But as we settled into our bus journey I realised there was more to his low spirits than just the weather.
The ride was normally one of his favourite parts of the day. Bob was a curious cat. Normally the world was an endlessly interesting place to him. No matter how often we did it, he would never tire of pressing himself against the glass. But today he wasn’t even bothered about taking the window seat - not that he’d have seen much through the condensation and streaks of rain that obscured our view of the outside world. Instead he curled up on my lap. He seemed tired. His body language was droopy. Looking at his eyes he seemed a bit drowsy, as if he was half asleep. He was definitely not his normal, alert self.
It was when we got off at Tottenham Court Road that he took a distinct turn for the worse. Luckily the rain had eased off a bit by now and I was able to splash my way through the backstreets in the direction of Covent Garden. It wasn’t an easy process and I kept hopping around to sidestep the bigger puddles and the giant umbrellas that flew at me every now and then.
As we walked down Neal Street I was suddenly aware that Bob was behaving oddly on my shoulder. Rather than sitting there impassively as normal, he was twitching and rocking around.
‘You all right there, mate?’ I said, slowing down.
All of a sudden he began moving in a really agitated way, making weird retching noises as if he was choking or trying to clear his throat. I was convinced he was going to jump or fall off so I placed him down on the street to see what was wrong. But before I could even kneel down he began to vomit. It was nothing solid, just bile. But it just kept coming. I could see his body convulsing as he retched and fought to expel whatever it was that was making him sick. For a moment or two I wondered whether it was my fault and he felt queasy because of all the motion today.