As he strode up through the mall, Rick Dernley felt happy with his lot in life.  

Physically he felt splendid, the sun was shining, he was comfortable in his bespoke, lightweight woollen suit, knowing that the sombre grey was tastefully contrasted by the dash of colour from his teal waist-coat.  He knew (without being vain) he looked good.  He was trim, he was tailored, he was confident.  He knew too that he reflected success and comfortable affluence without the arrogance of overt flashiness.  From his Amedeo Testoni shoes, to his Charvet neck-tie, he was polished yet subtle. He aimed to invoke just a little envy from the cognoscenti while not antagonising the masses he so often captured in his books and magazine pieces.  Taking in the mid-morning habitués of the cobbled concourse he couldn’t help but feel smug in the knowledge that his clothing cost more than the cars of most of those he passed.

“But the satisfying thing is they don’t know it!” he thought to himself in one of those conversational interplays he silently engaged in with his creative other half.

“I am good, because I look and feel good … or do I feel good because I look good … or do I look good because I am good … and I feel good.”  This indulgent musing brought a half-smile to his lips, as he knew he was mashing his thoughts into a jumble of almost incoherent ramblings.  His self-reverence was interrupted by the intrusion of a hesitant figure intersecting his path.  A dishevelled man of possibly his own age now impeded his progress.

“Excuse me sir, I don’t suppose you could spare a few coins for a sandwich?” the scruffy figure implored in a well-spoken voice, humble and only ever so slightly pleadingly.  

Rick hesitated for half a pace before surging past, momentarily taking in the aged and worn clothing of the tatterdemalion, enjoying the recollection of one of his long-dead mother’s favourite words from decades ago.  It was something about meeting the homeless man’s eyes for just an instant that then made Rick pause and turn.

“If you’re still here in 30 minutes, I’ll take you for a sandwich.”

As he recommenced his peregrination, Rick was pleased with this directive, knowing it was opening up an opportunity for the pathetic figure in his multi-coloured Fair Isle jersey … a jersey inappropriately over-coated by a torn pin-stripe suit jacket.  An opportunity and a conundrum he thought, judging that the few coins would be spent topping up or replacing the brown-paper-covered bottle, which protruded from the grimy jacket pocket.

It was fully 45 minutes before Rick returned and he noted with surprise that his shabby brunch-date was still warming himself in the spring sunshine.  As he strode a central path down the pedestrian thoroughfare, his mood sank a little as he saw the figure rise and move towards him.  As this disparate recipient of his offered benevolence stood resolutely in his path, Rick was able to observe him more clearly and register the image for later recollection.  Before him was a man of matching height and weight to himself, but with a thick head of uncombed curly grey hair topping a wind-burnt face, which somehow radiated neither health nor vitality.  A sharp Roman nose featured prominently in his visage, delineating a pair of flickering, red-rimmed pale-grey eyes.  A silvery facial growth that would never pass for designer-stubble covered the lower half of his face, almost meeting a tawny thatch of chest hair that protruded from the poorly buttoned plaid shirt.

“Thank you for this, I appreciate it.”

Again Rick was surprised by the soft voice not quite matching the battered exterior the man presented. Quickly he chose an outside bistro with chairs and tables no more than 20 paces away.  The man radiated the distinctive aroma of the unwashed, although Rick was relieved to acknowledge this was not particularly over-powering.

“Rick”, he advanced both the introduction and his hand, firmly grasping the other’s darkly soiled palm.

“Brian … Brian Telford.  … well, I once was.”  The weathered face broke into a half-smile.

Decisively, Rick extracted the menus from between the crockery condiment dispensers and told Brian to order anything he wanted.  It became obvious that the approach of the pretty young waitress unsettled him and his order of bacon, eggs, hash browns and fried tomatoes with toast and coffee, was hesitantly delivered.  Rick could sense an unease, knowing this broken man was out of his element and also that the bistro staff were probably used to him looking for hand-outs. Expectancy filled the silence that followed.  Rick broke it, realising he had a strong desire to know more about his rumpled companion.

“Where did you sleep last night?”

“On the waterfront, by Shed Seven.”

“Was it cold?”

“For a while, after the warmth of the bottle wore off and before the sun came up.  Been worse though and it didn’t rain and I wasn’t moved on or hassled.”

“Do you usually sleep in the city or do you go to the night shelter?”

“I have a bivvy up in the town belt but I just couldn’t make it up there last night, too much bottle.”  His head dropped a little as though he felt he was being judged.

They ate their meals in silence, Rick noting that Brian devoured his food noisily without recourse to delicacy or manners.  The urgency he devoted to the task suggested a fear of having it taken away.  Rick amused himself with the thought that given a chance, Brian would have licked the plate clean.  Finally replete, Brian looked at his benefactor and thanked him once more.

“That’s all right Brian … I don’t suppose you’d do me a favour and let me interview you.  I’m a writer and I’d like to do a piece on the plight of the homeless.  I could advance you some money for your time and maybe another meal.”  

He slid his wallet from his inner pocket and to his dismay found he only had a $50 note, not the $20 he’d intended to hand over.  “Bugger!” he silently castigated himself for his profligate largesse, but quickly reminded himself that somehow he’d make this a tax-deductable donation and the story had the potential to once more be a Dernley winner.

“Take me down the path that has led you to being on the streets and so obviously down on your luck.”

After a hesitant start, it was like a genie had unstopped the magic bottle and Brian’s life story transitioned from a hesitant trickle to an unstoppable cascade.  From the shared background of a Marist Brothers’ education, the two men bonded through recollections so similar they could have been brothers.  Rick chuckled away as he counter-ticked Brian’s story.  An observer would have come to the conclusion that one of these mid-40s men was in costume as quite obviously they didn’t belong together.  Yet they were spiritedly chatting away with enthusiasm.

“But how did you slide from commerce to vagrancy?”

It was obvious this was a hard part of the story to articulate, and Brian hesitated so long that Rick struggled to stay silent.  But somehow he knew he had to give space and time to let the story unfold.  Before continuing, Brian breathed deeply several times quite noisily through his open mouth, exposing yellowed teeth and neglected, inflamed gums.

“There was a girl, Augustine.  We were lovers, soul-mates and best friends. She was my universe.  I loved her so much at times I could hardly breathe.  Yet other times I could run like the wind and jump high in the air, calling to the stars. Times like that I felt super-charged. I was Zeus and she was Aphrodite. I loved every inch of that woman. I loved her softness, I loved the curves and folds of her flesh.  I loved her white bits, I loved her pink bits, I loved her furry bits.  There wasn’t a square millimetre of her I didn’t adore and pay daily homage to.  I loved her turned-in stance, I loved her untidy hair, her bad cooking and clever jokes. I would kiss the soft craters of her eye sockets and gently suck on her ear lobes.  I would give her big noisy blow-kisses on her belly.”  

He pulled back a sob and Rick could see tears making small furrows down his face.  But there was no stopping him now.

“I loved the back of her neck, the base of her spine, the fine soft hairs on her forearms.  Sometimes we would just laugh and laugh, for no reason other than we were together.  My days were so happy, as each one ended with the knowledge that simultaneously we would be racing home to domesticity.  We didn’t like clubbing or going to pubs.  We just loved each other and couldn’t wait to grow old together.  We were so overwhelmingly, happily dull – dull, dull, dull – and so proud of that, we revelled in it!”

He was now shuddering and sniffing, with his head bent down almost to his knees, cradled in his hands.

“So what happened?” gently asked Rick with a sense of foreboding.

“She was a trainee camera grip in TV, and one day they had a night of drinks to celebrate the finish of a shoot. She got drunk and a flash, slick investigative journalist seduced her, pushing aside her reticence and resistance.”

Rick found his own breathing was now becoming more laboured and keeping his tone as low and measured as he could, he asked “What happened next?”

“I was devastated, got blind drunk for the first time, got stopped by the cops for driving, got lippy and feebly tried to fight a whole watch-house of blue meanies.  Ultimately I lost my job and ran away.  I went to the far north and wallowed in self-pity and shame, along the way finding a liking for the numbing effects of the booze.  By the time I returned, it was all over Red Rover.  She was gone, thrown herself off the back of the cross-harbour ferry.  I’ve never managed to work since.”

“You’ve never told anyone this before have you?”

“No, and I thank you so much Rick, it’s like a heavy weight coming off my shoulders.  I’ve needed to tell someone for 17 years.”  His face betrayed that relief and it was almost as though a light had come on behind his eyes.

“He discarded her immediately, the bastard.  She was just a notch on his belt.  He took her because he could and did.  She was too sensitive to recover from the shame and loss.  If only I had been there, but I wasn’t, I was making love to crates of Gordons gin, thinking it was all about me.”

Rick’s breathing was now shallow and swift, a dull pressure filling his chest.  He reflected that this was more intense than the episode he’d endured the previous week.

The tatty man in front of him determinedly went on … “I’ve never known who the swine was, but I always wished I could face him so he could see the destruction he caused.  Gussie, gone forever … and me … I dunno, a worthless life of emptiness!”

Rick’s eyes widened in alarm and his chest discomfort intensified, his thoughts racing, the realisation impacted like a sledgehammer.

‘Gussie!  I never knew, she just went away!’  His thoughts were loud in his head, but not formalised into words. His vision started to blur, he belched involuntarily, his chest pains now dominating his being, his subconscious racing, wondering why it was getting dark so early in the day.

“Rick, Rick, are you ok?  You don’t look well! MISS, MISS … GET A DOCTOR!“

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