Martin Sourdough is a homeless person who has chosen to turn his
back on the corporate, material world; Willis Hancocks Jr. is a barrister, an
alcoholic philanderer, and a misogynist; and Evelyn (aka Yvonne) is a
prostitute. Turnstiles speaks to these social problems through the smaller
scope of each character’s individual trials. There is a struggle that exists
between the need to serve one’s own needs and the expectation to participate in
the larger social scheme. Martin and Willis are both trying to fit into the
world, but on their own terms. They are naïve, searching for an Eden-like state
of being. Through a broader experience of personal fortune, misfortune, travel,
and social interactions, they each learn to accept their path and take control
of their own destinies.
An empathetic and honest portrayal of human beings attempting to
redefine themselves against the friction of idealism’s clash with societal
expectations, Turnstiles is perfect for readers seeking a stirring, dramatic depiction of
love, loss, impulse, and consequence.
Martin
Martin opened his eyes. He squinted between his zippered lashes, stuck together
with sleep. A small army of shoes marched past his face, which was half-hidden
inside a dingy blue sleeping bag. His first instinct was to place a limp,
protective hand on his red knapsack. He was inside a short tunnel that lay
beneath a busy London street beside Hyde Park. He didn’t look up. He knew what
their faces would convey, their cowardly faces. He was experiencing the real
Europe, instead of peering out at it through heated hotel windows or hostel
bunk beds or tour buses. He didn’t have to pay anyone for his space of concrete
bedding. He was free. He closed his eyes. Martin was free.
He ignored his growling stomach as he smelled the subtle waft of
fries from the nearby Hard Rock Café. Tourists, he thought. They were all
missing the local colour. Except Joe the hotdog vendor, who was from the north,
a Scot, an outsider. Hot dogs in London were a foreign idea, but it seemed to
catch on like every other American phenomenon. London was a metropolis with
people from every race sounding their thick British accents. It didn’t really
matter who you were or what you were, only where you happened to become that
person. Still, people could tell if you were from somewhere else, and Martin
stuck out like a wounded hitch-hiker’s thumb. He had a quiet bond with Joe the
Outsider and, on most occasions, received his hotdogs for free. Then he would
usually lie under a tree in the park and watch tourists get charged two pounds
by security for using the lawn chairs. The grass was free. Martin felt as
though mindless sheep surrounded him. He had it all figured out.
A year before he had bought a cheap ticket to London and decided
to depend on the day to see him through. Martin cherished every consequence. He
held on to every face that examined him with curiosity or disgust. He always
kept a plain expression. He had no reason to indulge anyone with his emotions.
In fact, he barely spoke. Except to people like Joe.
When he opened his eyes again, a different army of shoes were
marching past. The tunnel was never quiet, and he had long been used to the
intrusion of echoing sounds and rustling pavement. It was a small sacrifice. He
wriggled out of his bed and began to pack up. He would return later that night.
Martin had become a familiar sight, and some of the locals knew this tunnel was
his home. So did some of the other shoestring backpackers. Martin marched
alongside the army and out of the tunnel. The sun was out, and again, he
squinted. He ran a hand over his stubbled head and rubbed his eyes. He turned
left.
The sun was already seated royally in the sky as Martin strolled
down the wide, crowded sidewalk. He could see the faint shape of an umbrella a
few blocks away, and as he came closer, he recognized Joe. Martin’s stomach
began to growl again.
“Get your hotdogs here! Hello, sir, what a gorgeous day. Would you like a
hotdog? Get your hotdogs here! Good day, love! Can I get you a hotdog? Would
you like the works?” Joe called to the passing public all day long. He set up
his stand on the same corner every day, and everyone who frequented that spot
knew him. Some just by his ruddy, round face, and others knew him well enough
to have a word or two. Martin felt he could relate to Joe, because it seemed
they were both stuck in London making a living on the sidewalks, and most of
the people bustling by chose to ignore them.
“Hey, Joe.” Martin showed a couple of teeth and then retracted his
smile. Even though he liked Joe, he was still careful not to let anyone get too
close. “Catering to the North American public, eh? It’s amazing you are able to
sell hotdogs here. I guess if you had your way, you’d be selling cans of
haggis.”
“Marty, my boy!” Joe’s face opened wide with good-natured eyes.
“How was your night? Those bloody bed bugs didn’t bite ya, aye, lad?” he boomed
in his rich, Scottish accent, completely disregarding Martin’s offhand remarks.
“Nah, Joe. No rats, neither. Just the bloody tourists waking me up
in the morning.” Martin grimaced.
“Bloody tourists?” Joe raised his eyebrows so high they looked
comical. “You better button your tongue, Marty. If there were no tourists,
there’d be no hotdogs! Besides, what the devil do you think you are … a
member of the general voting public? You’re the worst kind of tourist, Marty.
You don’t pay taxes and you don’t leave!” Joe chuckled and flung a hotdog with
ketchup and mustard into Martin’s waiting hand.
“See ya tomorrow, Joe,” said Martin without looking at his friend,
and he began to walk away.
“See ya, Marty,” Joe said quietly and to himself, because Martin
was already out of earshot. And they both knew they meant it. Tomorrow. Chances
were they would find themselves in the same skin and doing the same thing. The
two of them were like hamsters trapped in transparent, plastic balls looking
out at the world, unable to break free of their bubbles and constantly bumping
into walls.
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