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I never knew him, he sat on the island at the freeway offramp to Queensburgh in Northdene, he had been sitting there for years, where he came from i do not know, who he was i do not know. In the beginning he was dressed pretty decent, but decent on the street is a dangerous symptom, soon he was robbed of his jacket and shoes. A kind person donated an overcoat, great for winter but out of fashion for summer, it did double up as a blanket. In summer he slept on it, in winter he slept in it, he never complained, he never asked, all he did was sit and read his book. When the robot turned red and the cars lined up everyone stared, no one said a word then one or another would call out to him, squinting up against the sun the driver would hand him left over food that he never ate at work, it was handy having him sit there, the wife never knew you bought a burger and could not face eating another peanut butter sandwich, half a coke, no problem give it to him and he would dispose of the can, he sure was a handy man to have around. He did not mind and with a thank you nod he would go back to reading. Then the glasses were broken, late one night he was woken with a resounding kick to his back as he lay sleeping on the unkept grass in the public park, public being for everyone but not him, rolling over he reached for his glasses in his pocket confused in the moonlight, a hand arched down slapping his face and the glasses spun to the ground, a foot lifted and stomped them to pieces with a crunch that stops a mans soul, an era of books ended, the last cowboy in the westerns he so loved galloped away leaving him alone in a strange world.

The park was getting dangerous, he decided to move his accommodation, strolling the suburb he found a fence to a house covered with large shrubs, crawling around the back he smoothed out a spot, every night as soon as it went dark he snuck in, early to bed and early to rise, before sun up he was out and away ahead of everyone, he needed to be on his island at work before the traffic started. Then a dog discovered him sleeping under the shrubs and persisted in barking. The owners came out and were shocked, they called the police, screeching tires and a blue light announced their arrival, with disgust the owner demanded action, nodding Mr. Plod agreed and was swiftly pushed into the van by his neck and sent on his way with a boot to his rear, Mr. Plod then slammed the door and drove off, the speed calling to attention the great emergency. Next morning the local rag mags had his story printed in every issue, the homeless situation was out of control in the suburbs, he had upset a whole neighborhood by being alive, Armageddon had erupted, the world was ending.

The van stopped in Chatsworth, Mr. Plods mum stayed there, he collected a dozen fresh samoosa’s and continued his drive wishing he had a cold beer to wash the samoosa’s down, his mum had a heavy hand with the Kashmir chilli powder, he wondered if she spiced it up on purpose, he would have to discuss it with her next time again.

Reaching the freeway the van pulled up, Mr. Plod opened the back door and ordered him out, with a stern nod and finger display he flatly stated, “I don’t want to see you again or …. or what”, he did not know, he jumped in the van and drove off much slower than he arrived, the emergency was over, Mr. Plod had saved the day.

Looking around he realized where he was and started the slow journey back, following the road the van had snaked down, darkness fell and he sat sleeping on the pavement, early morning he continued walking, thinking about food he looked up, grinned and shook his head. 30mins later he was trudging up the final hill when he heard a voice calling. He stopped and saw an old Indian lady motioning for him to wait, she disappeared inside and came out smiling, handing him a packet with the top rolled and a liter milk she smiled, “my son does not like them, they are too hot, but he is a good boy, say a prayer for him” he nodded and she disappeared once more inside, noting she never closed the door he smiled, looked up, shook his head and continued strolling on his way as he opened the packet, a dozen samoosa’s, he grabbed one remembering how hungry he was, the samoosa was chilli hot, he grinned no wonder her son complained, stuffing his mouth full he knew he would never complain and be forever grateful.

Late that evening he reached his island and sat down, he stared at nothing for a long time thinking about life when a voice brought him back to reality, an arm stretched out and a R10 note fluttered in the wind, smiling he nodded thank you, took the note slipped it in his pocket wondering what he should buy as the cars pulled away leaving him inhaling the exhaust fumes.

I watched him every day, I gave him a R10 note once a week, one day I spotted him at the bottle store, he had a bottle in his hand walking away. Staring at him I hoped it was old brown sherry, he needed it, the nights were getting cold. He never did have a book in his hands again, his appearance deteriorated as his hands and face got dirty, the dust enhanced the lines on his weary face, handing him a note my heart died every time.

One day he was gone, the island desolate, the cars still lined up smoking and snaking at the caged sat staring and nothing, many men had to throw the food in the bush as they drove past, the gutter filled with tins half filled, half empty, I stared at the tins blinking in the fading sun light, a last reminder of a man who society despised. I heard he had died, how I have no idea, the neighborhood breathed a sigh of relief, no story of his death made the paper. His body was dumped in a dark hole somewhere, alone, as he lived his final years. He never complained I am sure, he never begged and moaned, he just accepted it, i bet he nodded thank you at the end.

I only hope he found peace. I drive the offramp every now and again, I always look for him, then I remember and look up, perhaps one day we will pass each other again. I doubt it as I don’t think I will get a ticket to enter, unless he remembers me and puts in a good word.

Many months later in 2013 I stopped at an art in the park event, wandering around. I came face to face with him, he stared at me, I stared back and lifted my camera, taking a picture I smiled, never said a word and walked away.

Whoever the artist was who painted this man she will never know what her art had done, what it had captured, all I know is that many years later I look at the picture of the art work and I know I will answer for ignoring him, I stand guilty that I know.

I never found out his name.

MR …. you are remembered, I hope your portrait hangs with pride in a caring home.

Perhaps he has met Mona Lisa now.