It's Only a Paper Moon

They say that if a man has not succeeded by thirty, then he has failed - and if any proof of that were needed, ask Dixon. At fifty, Dixon worked part-time in a shoe shop in the centre of a dying city where department store doorways gave way to a global parade of beggars and addicts, shooting up and spitting out. He found the only way to deal with this unsatisfactory life was to laugh at it; not as an act of futile submission but as a nod to courageous defiance.

Ten years earlier, he’d been something big in dog food. An accountant by profession, he had not only steered the company through countless audits and acquisitions, but he had also penned the trade name of their gourmet brand, THE DOGS B*LLOX. He took a punt that if FCUK could get away it, then so could they. Oh yes, Dixon had been a contender. But one homeward-bound evening, after a long and tiring board meeting, he’d suffered a minor infarction whilst idling at a stop sign and was shunted up the rear by a Polish juggernaut. After that, his heart attack always felt like the least of his troubles.

Nowadays, bearing the scars to his face and the limp to his gait, Dixon was lucky to get any job at all. And thus his latter years were filled with bunions, insoles and arseholes.

At the end of his working days, he would take a pint or two by the pub near the bus station. From there he went ‘home’ to Graham’s shed, an old friend who fondly calls Dixon the fairy at the bottom of his garden. In this 6x6 wooden house, paid for by gardening, he works his nocturnal way through the Netflix pantheon and a six-pack of beer. He is but one remove away from homelessness.

His wife divorced him after the crash and now lives with a man called Kevin, who is clearly not afflicted by the shame of living in another man’s home and dressing gowns. Dixon thinks it is quite admirable to live your life in this blasé manner; to not give a damn that a limping man who lives in a hut would quite like to fry your testicles in butter.

Dixon’s other friend is a street performer called Yip. Yip usually stands in the lavish portico of Marks & Spencer, which had closed the Christmas before. They said they’d close at 6pm on Christmas Eve, but in the event - and after seventy years of retail service - the staff locked the doors at 4pm, leaving a trail of broken-hearted old women in their wake, who had merely wanted one last opportunity to fondle the lingerie. Dixon, watching from the shoe shop opposite, thought there was something achingly sad about it; that those arrogant kids couldn’t grant those women just two more hours to relive those old department store memories from classier times than these.

Yip was in his mid thirties and strummed an acoustic guitar behind a sign which read, ‘BUSKING FOR RENT MONEY.’ It was a bit true, but it wasn’t the whole story. Yip made plenty of money working as a graphic designer from home. On his days off, he plunged his manicured fingernails into the loose soil of his mother’s garden, and, sporting a Liam Gallagher haircut, implied that he might be homeless. In addition to the money which poured into his bank account, Yip’s sideline as a pavement chanteur was lucrative.

It was the songs which drew Dixon to Yip. On Monday’s there was another guy, with a similar sign, who sang folk music in a voice which didn’t know whether it was Cornish, Scottish or Irish, and so emerged as a form of Geordie. He sang The Fog on the Tyne, (a river three hundred miles north-east from where he stood) on a repetitive loop, which included All Around My Hat, and Didn’t We Have a Lovely Time The Day We Went to Bangor? Dixon wanted to smash his face in with a shoe horn.

But Yip? Yip sang the songbook classics, now a hundred years old and then some, songs from Bessie Smith, Cab Calloway, Bing Crosby and the like. He had a crooner’s voice, a smoky voice, a fucking brilliant voice - and Dixon’s favourite was It’s Only a Paper Moon. He once asked Yip why he loved it, and Yip said, ‘Because unless someone believes in you, the sky might just as well be canvas, the stars buttons, and the moon made of paper.’

Yip always finished off with Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? - and that’s when the money really started kerplunking into the guitar case. Yip would then gather it up, go to the bank before closing and turn it into notes. That was his mother’s housekeeping money. She was growing old, and the house he shared with her was entailed to someone in his father’s family. In this regard, Yip was one remove away from homelessness himself, so to him, money was for saving. It was important.

*****

The pub on the corner of the bus station played lively music from a digital duke box. The clientele knew the classics and played them at full volume. In the warmer months, Dixon was in the habit of sitting outside, where tables and chairs were corralled behind the sort of rope set-up you’d normally find at a red carpet event. The people who passed by were often harried, on their way to catch a bus which may never arrive, having seemingly dropped to the stygian caverns beneath, to the underworld, by way of a giant pot hole. No one stopped here for photographs with Hollywood teeth.

Yip had joined him for the first pint. They were discussing how much they both wished they were gay, so they could pool their resources. Yip says there are mushrooms that can turn you queer and Dixon said ‘Yeah, just like I’m growing a cervix in my shed.’

‘You know,’ said Dixon. ‘I can’t understand why you don’t have a girlfriend. You’re a good-looking guy. You always say you’re nobody until somebody loves you.’

‘Dean Martin and paper moons,’ said Yip, with the air of a man who’d gone all cryptic but couldn’t quite finish the crossword. 'But I live with my mother and, trust me, that is a bigger turnoff than hairy ears. They see me, they think Anthony Perkins. Anyway, gotta fly. Mother’s cutting my toenails tonight.’

The vacated seat was quickly taken by an interloper whose face betrayed, with amateur eagerness, his intent to cajole Dixon out of a pint. The pre-rehearsed sob story was bleeding out of him like an uncauterised wound. Bus stations were like a honeypot to this sort of drone, and Dixon pointedly eyed the empty chairs all around them before settling his gaze on the man.

‘Evening,’ said the man. ‘Been a nice day.’

‘Not for me it hasn’t,’ said Dixon. ‘I’ve lost my late mother’s amethyst ring, which was gifted to her by the King of Sweden.’

‘Oh dear,’ the stranger said. ‘When did you last see it?’

‘If I knew that I might be onto something. Never mind, there’s plenty more priceless jewellery where that came from.’

‘I see,’ said the stranger, pulling the chair in a little closer. ‘Well, at least it’s not the end of the world, unlike —’

‘Oh it is!’ said Dixon. ‘You don’t know my mother’s temper —’

‘Apologies! I thought you said she was dead.’

‘Clearly you don’t know women,’ said Dixon, dismissively.

Changing tack, the man got all lyrical on the subject of bad fortune. ‘I’m actually a successful businessman,’ he offered. ‘I’m here to visit my sister and thought I’d take the coach from London. Anyhow, somewhere along the way it seems that someone has lifted my wall —’

‘Do successful businessmen take the National Express?’ said Dixon. ‘I suppose you’re being all climate friendly, are you?’

‘Yes! Yes, that’s exactly it! Carbon footprint …’

‘Well, we’re all going to die,’ Dixon mused. ‘I suppose it might be quite sociable to do so at roughly the same time as everyone else. I can’t say I’m dead set against the idea. It might be quite fun, all those cans of baked beans and tea lights, batteries for the torches, checking on your neighbour to see if they’ve a cup of spare oxygen —’

‘Quite,’ said the man. ‘But the thing is … are you a Christian type?’

‘Me? No. I’m a practising Muslim.’

‘Oh! Are you allowed to drink?’

‘I did say I was practising.’

‘I see. But that is a religion known for its hospitality, is it not?’

‘I believe so,’ said Dixon. ‘But much like everything else, I suppose it depends on who you are and what you want.’

‘Ah! Well, down to business —’

‘Oh, I’ve been doing business all day long,’ interrupted Dixon. ‘I’m very big in shoes, especially if I wear platforms.’

‘Look! The thing is that some pond life has swiped my wallet.' He then produced a dog-eared calling card from his pocket. 'I would be forever in your debt if you bought me a pint and perhaps withdrew a little cash from the ATM over there so I can get myself a cab to my sister’s. I promise you I’m kosher —’

‘You forget that I’m a Muslim from Azerbaijan,’ said Dixon. ‘Now if you were halal —’

‘I promise you I’m halal,’ the man said, ‘Like a stick of rock. Look! My card! I’m the CEO of Pavey, Lynch and Gorge. Look!’ he prodded at the card. ‘That’s me!’

‘All three? You could be anybody!’ Dixon protested, secretly thinking he must be from nearby Cheddar. 'It's merely a card. Now look here! You’re not getting anything from me. You remind me of this tabby cat that keeps trying to break into my hut. He eats about ten meals a day, drops furry shits all over the garden, and doesn’t have to work for a living. I don’t let him in either. And you’ve absolutely let yourself down.’ Dixon crossed his arms, pleased with himself.

‘Let myself down? How?’

‘Because you still have your phone,’ he said, all triumphant. ‘Don’t you have internet banking?’

‘I don’t agree with it,’ said the stranger, doubling down like a good serve in ping pong. ‘There’s too much money in my accounts - in all of my accounts. If my phone got into the wrong hands —’

‘Why don’t you phone your sister?’

‘She’s deaf.’

‘Why don’t you text your sister?’

‘She’s dyslexic.’

‘Why don’t you fuck off?’

‘Consider it done,’ said the exasperated infiltrator, who mooched off in the direction of the bus station.

Dixon was pleased with himself. Yes, his life was a shallow enough artifice of forelock tugging and faux gratitude for the scraps thrown his way. Even Graham went heavy on the lawn mowing demands, but there was still something of the old Dixon in there, before the moon turned to paper. Within this rainbow-hued arc of pride, he stood up to get himself another drink when his eye was caught by a brown, leather wallet at the base of the chair where the stranger had recently sat. It was plump, unlike his own, and at that moment, Dixon imagined another scenario. That the man had come in good faith to have a quick pint after a coach journey and the wallet had slipped from his trouser pocket as he sat down. Was he expecting table service instead of going straight to the bar where he would have realised the loss of it sooner? He said he was wealthy. Maybe he was used to clicking his fingers. Maybe he’d been telling the truth all along.

Following an idle instinct of profound divinity, Dixon grabbed the wallet and headed in the direction of the bus station. Throngs of people were swarming out of the exit from a recent London delivery: wheeled suitcases, oblivious people on phones, teenagers walking in spotty horizontal stripes, but through it all, he thought he could see the dark head of the interloper marching past the information stand. Gently barging people out of the way, deftly swerving the queues for the provincial buses, ignoring the tuts and the sarcastic excuse me’s, Dixon planted a hand on the man’s shoulder just as he was about to exit towards the city centre.

‘Sorry,’ he panted, ‘Seems that I was wrong. Your wallet.’

The stranger looked confused, which was understandable given Dixon’s behaviour. He took the proffered wallet with a reverence usually reserved for those on whom a miracle has been bestowed.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘What a life saver!’

‘No problems, buddy.’

Dixon's next bus was thirty-five minutes away, so he returned to the bar, ordered a pint, and sat in the same chair he had previously occupied. The sky was darkening but it was still mild. Mostly Asian cab drivers chatted amiably with their colleagues, and students walked by talking shit. With his back towards the pedestrian shopping precinct, he didn’t notice Yip approaching until his shaggy silhouette dropped a shadow in his lap.

‘Thank Christ you’re still here!’ he said, scanning the ground before sitting down and swiping his brow. ‘I must have dropped my wallet when I was here earlier.’