“Okay!” says Bins, bustling in from his morning walk. “Today’s the day we will start to be RICH.” I am not a morning person. So any bustling that happens before I’m awake becomes entangled in the end-credits of my dreams. But Bins is undeterred. He drags me out of bed, throws me in the tub and turns on the cold shower. Well no, not really. He just continues making a racket until I am forced into consciousness.

“Whoz da scheme?” I ask, my voice still soggy with sleep. “It’s brilliant,” says Bins, “I am a genius!” Modesty is not his strong suit. “See: we have a hearse. It has a giant compartment at the back. It is air-conditioned. It has music. It has darkened windows.” He looks at me expectantly. “Is it not obvieuse?” He slips into his native French-isms when he’s really excited. “We can rent it for pleasure rides! By the hour!” I frown. “Whaddya mean?” I ask, trying but failing to see the commercial potential of his idea. “Who needs to use a hearse for pleasure rides? Horny corpses?”

“Ohhh! You have no imagination,” he exclaims, slapping his forehead in despair. “Not corpses, not horny, just HOMELESS! We rent it out to people who want to get away from the heat, the dust, the noise of the street.” I’m still frowning. “But ... homeless people, by definition, don’t have much money,” I say. “If they can rent a hearse by the hour, they can rent a home.” Bins is shaking his head vigorously from side-to-side. “You are SO wrong! I have been talking to some friends on the street. Some of them are homeless but not poor. They agree with me. They are loving the idea. In fact ...”

In fact, one of the Homeless is already in there, enjoying a free introductory offer. “But ...” I begin, “... to run the AC and the music means you’ve got to turn the engine on, right?” Bins says, “Of course!” nodding and shrugging. I can’t approve. “That’s terrible for the environment! All that carbon dioxide being pumped into the atmosphere!” He shrugs some more. “It is the introductory offer. Fifteen minutes only. After that, I will drive him around while he will be cool and happy.” I am still not convinced. “I bet it’s not allowed. You can’t just — I dunno! Rent out a backseat without some kind of licence! And suppose he wants to bring his friends? Suppose he wants to spend the whole week in there?”

Before Bins can answer, there’s a knock on the door. He goes to see who it is, while I brush my teeth. When I come out, I hear Bins close the door and come back in. He’s dragging his feet. “Who was that?” I ask. It was the Harry the Homeless. “He said it was too cold,” says Bins. “And he doesn’t like being in a hearse. He thinks it is creepy. He prefers the hot, sunny street with the dust and the noise!” Bins taps his forehead. “These homeless are crazy,” he says, in a gloomy voice.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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