The Otto Bin Empire
Cliveâs Story
It was Madge who came up with the term. The site had always been referred to among the locals as simply âThe Cornerâ, although it wasnât really a corner at all, just a dozen or so big plastic rubbish bins, the collective property of the old suburbâs tiny and impoverished terrace houses that sat under the flyover down near the docks. But one day when Clive, whoâd only recently joined the eclectic group that gathered there, had inquired why theyâd chosen this particular spot, Madge had waved a hand about airily, referring to the manufacturer of the wheelie bins.
âNo reason at all,â sheâd said. âThis is just one place among hundreds in the Otto Bin Empire.â Then sheâd dragged heavily on her roll-your-own and given one of her chesty chortles, and Clive had laughed along with her. The fact that heâd âgot the jokeâ had forged an instant bond between the two for Madge was proud of her wit, and justifiably so â she was a clever woman.
The term had been steadily passed along the grapevine of the inner-city homeless after that. Even those who didnât understand the reference to the Ottoman Empire, and to be truthful most didnât, approved of the title. They were now part of an empire, andthey liked that fact. The pools of wheelie bins that littered the cityâs pokier suburbs and cluttered the lanes behind high-rise apartment blocks had always been popular gathering places, forming practical leaning posts and tabletops as they did, but there was a subtle difference now. The humble Otto Bin had taken on a new form of dignity.
For Clive, Madgeâs term came to register something more significant than the amusing remark heâd initially taken it to be. As more and more he found himself drawn to âThe Cornerâ, firstly for Madgeâs company, then for the companionship offered by some of the others, he realised for the first time that he was actually one of them. He was one of the homeless and therefore a member of the Otto Bin Empire.
Heâd known for two months that he was a person without a home. A pathetic figure perhaps, a forty-five-year-old whose worldly possessions were housed in a mothy backpack and who roamed the cityâs streets and parks seeking out nooks and crannies, sleeping in the bedroll he carried slung over one shoulder. But heâd never thought of himself as officially âhomelessâ. He was not one of those displaying a cardboard sign declaiming a state of homelessness and begging on street corners; he was not one of those openly scrounging through the contents of public litter bins and gathering cigarette butts that had been ground into the pavement. Nor, thank God, was he one of those lost souls talking gibberish and guzzling who-knows-what, possibly methylated spirits, from a bottle in a brown paper bag. They were the homeless â the lost, the mentally ill, the alcoholics and junkies, the all-round seriously discombobulated. Iâm not one of them ,heâd think. Iâm just a bloke going through a period of adjustment, Iâll be back on my feet soon .
He didnât know exactly when that would be because he didnât give the matter a great deal of thought. For the moment he earned enough to scrape by doing odd gardening jobs and a bit of handyman work now and then. Some days heâd walk for miles into the leafier outer suburbs where houses boasted gardens â he enjoyed walking â and other days heâd stick to the ritzier city suburbs, choosing the wealthy homes whose once-meticulous landscaping appeared in need of a little attention. He rarely asked for work outright, he found he didnât need to â most opportunities presented themselves through casual conversation. Thatâs the way things had started out anyway.
âYou want to be careful doing that,â heâd said as heâd watched her through
Cliveâs Story
It was Madge who came up with the term. The site had always been referred to among the locals as simply âThe Cornerâ, although it wasnât really a corner at all, just a dozen or so big plastic rubbish bins, the collective property of the old suburbâs tiny and impoverished terrace houses that sat under the flyover down near the docks. But one day when Clive, whoâd only recently joined the eclectic group that gathered there, had inquired why theyâd chosen this particular spot, Madge had waved a hand about airily, referring to the manufacturer of the wheelie bins.
âNo reason at all,â sheâd said. âThis is just one place among hundreds in the Otto Bin Empire.â Then sheâd dragged heavily on her roll-your-own and given one of her chesty chortles, and Clive had laughed along with her. The fact that heâd âgot the jokeâ had forged an instant bond between the two for Madge was proud of her wit, and justifiably so â she was a clever woman.
The term had been steadily passed along the grapevine of the inner-city homeless after that. Even those who didnât understand the reference to the Ottoman Empire, and to be truthful most didnât, approved of the title. They were now part of an empire, andthey liked that fact. The pools of wheelie bins that littered the cityâs pokier suburbs and cluttered the lanes behind high-rise apartment blocks had always been popular gathering places, forming practical leaning posts and tabletops as they did, but there was a subtle difference now. The humble Otto Bin had taken on a new form of dignity.
For Clive, Madgeâs term came to register something more significant than the amusing remark heâd initially taken it to be. As more and more he found himself drawn to âThe Cornerâ, firstly for Madgeâs company, then for the companionship offered by some of the others, he realised for the first time that he was actually one of them. He was one of the homeless and therefore a member of the Otto Bin Empire.
Heâd known for two months that he was a person without a home. A pathetic figure perhaps, a forty-five-year-old whose worldly possessions were housed in a mothy backpack and who roamed the cityâs streets and parks seeking out nooks and crannies, sleeping in the bedroll he carried slung over one shoulder. But heâd never thought of himself as officially âhomelessâ. He was not one of those displaying a cardboard sign declaiming a state of homelessness and begging on street corners; he was not one of those openly scrounging through the contents of public litter bins and gathering cigarette butts that had been ground into the pavement. Nor, thank God, was he one of those lost souls talking gibberish and guzzling who-knows-what, possibly methylated spirits, from a bottle in a brown paper bag. They were the homeless â the lost, the mentally ill, the alcoholics and junkies, the all-round seriously discombobulated. Iâm not one of them ,heâd think. Iâm just a bloke going through a period of adjustment, Iâll be back on my feet soon .
He didnât know exactly when that would be because he didnât give the matter a great deal of thought. For the moment he earned enough to scrape by doing odd gardening jobs and a bit of handyman work now and then. Some days heâd walk for miles into the leafier outer suburbs where houses boasted gardens â he enjoyed walking â and other days heâd stick to the ritzier city suburbs, choosing the wealthy homes whose once-meticulous landscaping appeared in need of a little attention. He rarely asked for work outright, he found he didnât need to â most opportunities presented themselves through casual conversation. Thatâs the way things had started out anyway.
âYou want to be careful doing that,â heâd said as heâd watched her through
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