How to Fall in Love with a Man Who Lives in a Bush

‘Where are you from? Originally?’

‘Canada,’ he replies. ‘You been there?’

I shake my head. ‘No. But I’ve always wanted to go.’

‘Oh you got to! There’s no culture there of course. Not like here. Just a load of rednecks. But the mountains! And the air! Standing on Wreck Beach and just breathing that fresh mountain air. Or driving the pick-up to Bouleau Lake to go fishing. Man, I miss Canada!’

His boyish enthusiasm is such a contrast to his almost frightening size that I have to smile.

11 (#ulink_d9065722-e849-58c5-a8ed-054771933ee5)

As we talk we’re walking along Ringstrasse, which circles the first district. At some point we buy ourselves hot dogs from an Imbiss kiosk and a bottle of red wine from Billa. I pay for the wine and Ben pays for the hot dogs with a heap of change he digs out of his jeans pocket. The drunks that hang out in front of the Imbiss kiosk watch with interest as Ben counts out the coins on the metal counter. When it turns out he has enough they look relieved and almost pat him on the back.

‘How old are you?’ I ask before taking a bite of my hot dog.

‘Twenty-four,’ Ben replies.

‘What?’ I turn towards him.

‘Twenty-four,’ he replies.

‘A-are you sure?’ I stammer. ‘I thought you were older.’

‘Beard,’ he says, pointing at it. ‘You?’

‘I’m almost thi … Twenty-nine,’ I reply.

Ben doesn’t just sleep in a bush, he’s also a bearded child.

‘How tall are you?’ I ask.

‘Six foot five,’ he replies. ‘I think that’s about one hundred and ninety-five centimetres.’

‘So tell me again how you became homeless,’ I say. ‘I just don’t get how people end up that way. I mean, I get why some people do, but not people like you.’

Ben doesn’t say anything at first.

‘It’s simple,’ he says after a while. ‘What could be easier than just sleeping wherever you want? You see a bit of grass and you sleep there.’

‘But what about winter?’

‘I find an empty house.’

‘But don’t you get scared?’

‘Of what?’ he says, smiling. ‘That someone’s going to take my stinky old jumper?’

‘But is this how you want to live your life?’ I ask.

‘Why not?’ Ben says, shrugging. ‘I’ve got nothing to complain about, but I can tell you one thing. The best country to be homeless in is Switzerland. When me and The English were in Geneva I ate three fantastic meals a days at different hostels.’

From what I can make out, The English is some crazy Scot who Ben met in Spain and who came with him to France and Switzerland. In Geneva, Ben and The English realised they’d had enough of each other and went their separate ways in that pragmatic way only men seem to be capable of.

‘But how can you afford to travel from one country to the next?’

Ben sticks out his thumb. ‘I hitch,’ he says. ‘Of course, sometimes you just end up walking through industrial estate after industrial estate, or some seedy residential district, and it’s hot as fuck and not a single car passes. And then I earn money by singing badly or telling jokes on the street.’

‘Can you really make money that way?’ I ask.

‘Of course I can,’ he smiles. ‘The English and I had this whole routine we used to do that people loved. But one time this guy put some money in our box when we were just sitting there resting, so I ran after him and gave it back. I’m no beggar.’

‘But do you like sleeping in a bush?’ I ask, because I still can’t get over his homelessness.

‘My bush is totally cool!’ he says. ‘There’s space for two and you can’t see in from the outside.’

‘But a bush? Wouldn’t you rather sleep in a room? On a mattress?’

Ben scratches his beard. I take a last glug from the wine bottle before throwing it in a bin.

‘Sure … sometimes …’ he begins. ‘Especially now it’s started getting colder again in the evenings. That’s why I gotta find a house soon.’

Suddenly he takes my hand and we walk on. His hand is so large it almost swallows mine and I notice that my heart is beating faster and faster. Under all the dirt, Ben really is one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever met, with an astounding – and surprising – sense of self-confidence, pride and joyfulness. Being so close to him sends hot pulses through my body and suddenly I realise I want to kiss him. In fact, I want to have sex with him. My only dilemma is that the stench of him almost makes me retch.

‘Why don’t you have any shoes?’ I ask. ‘Doesn’t it hurt to walk barefoot all the time?’

‘When I was in Spain I realised I had holes in my shoes,’ Ben says. ‘First I wound a load of gaffer tape round them but it was impossible to fix them so I threw them in the sea. Unfortunately I realised too late that you can’t buy size 47 in Spain because all the Spaniards are like five foot tall. So I had to go barefoot. And in France they’re not much taller, and by the time I got to Switzerland I was used to going barefoot. But you should see the calluses under my feet. They’re crazy. Want to check them out?’

‘No, thank you,’ I say.

‘What do you do then?’ Ben asks.

‘I teach English at Berlitz,’ I reply. ‘Actually I want to be a writer, but sadly it seems all the stories I come up with have already been written. My subconscious memory for plot-lines seems to be a lot better than my imagination. Yesterday I had a really good idea for a story about an enormous great white shark that terrorises a little coastal town. I was so excited about it until I realised that’s the plot of Jaws.’

‘You’ll be an author one day,’ he says. ‘Sometimes things just take a little time.’

‘I wish I could be so sure of that,’ I say.

‘Maybe you should write something about your own life?’ he suggests.

‘The life of an English teacher isn’t that exciting, unfortunately,’ I say. ‘Although I once had a student who only ate things that were white, like rice and yoghurt. That was quite weird. And once she asked why we needed the past progressive tense, which is almost an existential question. And another student refused to have me as a teacher because I’d said that every time he said “informations” a puppy died, and every time he said “peoples” a kitten died. He turned out to be a real animal lover.’

‘How did you end up in Vienna?’ he asks.

‘Ah, it was … a guy,’ I mumble. ‘Matthias. He’s from round here.’

‘I hate him already,’ Ben says.

‘When we split up I just stayed here. I’ve lived in Vienna for almost five years, and now I share my life with Optimus.’