Cardboard

Walking around the city, I look at the buildings, the people. I’ve been living in the city centre for quite some time now, so nothing in particular catches me by surprise at this point.

I’ve passed the giant Ferris wheel a million times, gone all the way down Váci Street, only to end up at Fővám Square and cross Szabadság Bridge once again. Hardly anything catches me off guard. I even know the homeless man who lives next to our apartment building between two tobacco shops - Erno. Erno’s life is not a bed of roses by any means. He usually sleeps on a piece of rummaged cardboard, which can neither be called clean nor comfortable. In the winter, he wears a big coat, whereas during the summer, he goes shirtless so everyone can see the gigantic tattoo across his chest (I still haven’t figured out what it’s supposed to depict).

He has a very precise schedule. As soon as the store opens in the morning, he goes in, buys the cheapest alcohol he can find, and an hour later, is lying passed out on his piece of cardboard, and that is how he spends his days.

My routine is quite different: I eat an overpriced croissant from the bakery downstairs (I’m never sure why I keep paying for it), then rush to work or school, while stressing over what I’m wearing, whether it conforms just enough to social expectations while still helping me stand out. His question is much more straightforward: “Which bottle is cheaper?” Mine may seem more complicated, but in the end, it is just as meaningless.

Other people’s problems are different still: “My wife packed me a crappy sandwich for lunch again! Why doesn’t my son understand that I can’t afford to buy him a remote-controlled car?! How will I afford bread with the inflation rising?...”

Amid all these everyday complaints and worries, Erno discovered that he could shout with a new kind of guttural voice, one that made passersby keep an even wider distance from him.

None of us knows what awaits us the day after tomorrow. I worry about being late for work, while he worries about when the liquor store will open again. Two different worlds, but the same uncertainty

When I head home and enter my apartment with its high ceilings and herringbone parquet, a strange feeling washes over me. The city is at once glamorous and ruthless. Just around the corner: cardboard beds, torn blankets, shouting, and silence. Ernő stays between the two tobacco shops, while I take off my shoes and lie down in my soft bed. His shouting still echoes in my head, as if it had followed me home.

A mother passing by says to her son, “See, that’s why you need to stay in school.” The boy nods, and they walk on as if they had never even seen him.

…and I walk on too…