I am driving along my usual route to visit a friend in Melbourne when I see something.
A man is shuffling, no hoisting, no dragging himself along the footpath on his bum. I pull up next to him. His suit is dusty from the street and he is wincing and straining as he tries to lug his body along the ground in the direction of the train station. It’s maybe 100 meters away only, but he is like the snail committed to doing the length of his leaf by nightfall and travelling very slowly. It must hurt. So I pull over and unwind the passenger window.
You okay there, mate? I never call anyone mate but what can I say? Are you okay there, Sir? Mister? Mate just seems right.
Yeah. Nah. Not really, he says.
I can see his face more easily now and he is younger than I had first thought.
I’m going to the train station. Want to get home, he says.
Where’s home? I ask. He tells me and it’s a suburb not far away and I used to live in it. I am thinking I’ll run him back and that it won’t take long.
You need a hand? I could drive you there.
Then a white station wagon stops too and there’s a bloke with a beard and his family in the car – teenage son in the passenger seat and mother and daughter in the back. I get out of my car and walk over to his window.
Hi, I say. Thanks for stopping. Are you busy for the next half hour? Do you mind following me while I take this bloke home?
Sure. That’s all he says. We both know what we need to do and nothing else needs to be said.
Somehow I get the bloke on the footpath into my passenger seat and he even manages to belt himself in. Which seems a bit perverse given the risks he’s already taking with his personal safety.
I can smell the alcohol and desperation. I can see the fall from grace.
The bloke with the beard in the station wagon is following close behind.
So what’s going on? I ask the man sitting next to me now. Why don’t you use a wheel chair? That’d be easier, wouldn’t it?
Yeah. No. Not really. Tried that but it’s harder, not easier. He isn’t slurring exactly, but he is paying extral attention to how he forms the words in his mouth before allowing them to fall out for my benefit.
He tells me some stuff that doesn’t make sense and other stuff that is crystal clear and has the effect of both reducing and summing up a life in a few short sentences.
I was an accountant. Had my own firm. The wife’s gone. Don’t see my kids. Nah, don’t see my kids. They’re both in their 30’s now. I don’t see my kids. They won’t let me see them. They don’t wanna see me. Had my own firm.
By now we are in the suburb where he reckons he lives but he can’t give me a street name, let alone a number. So we start driving around and around the place searching for something that might jog his memory.
He looks out his window for some point of reference. I am starting to get a bit nervous by now. I am not scared but I am feeling a bit silly. The bloke in the station wagon is still following me on this joy ride;we have both been at it for a good 45 minutes by now.
There, over there! He calls out. That park! That park looks familiar. I am starting to get a sinking feeling that maybe his home is a nice little split level park bench.
Over there! he calls out again. That street! It’s a home. You know a residence for men. I’m not a drunk. I’m not a deadbeat drunk or anything. I was an accountant. I’m good with numbers.
Finally we pull up at a corner that is right opposite where I’d lived 15 years ago with Mum for a while after a bad relationship break-up.
The man in the suit refuses my help getting out of the car but he does let the family-man with the beard help him to the front door of what looks like a fairly respectable looking rooming house.
Hey! Ya dick head! Where ya been? There’s a bloke calling out of an upstairs balcony down to my man in his dusty suit.
This lass drove me back from the station, he calls back, nodding in my direction. She’s got a boy 11 year old.
It’s all he’d asked me during our 45 minutes together: You got any kids? That’s all he’d wanted to know.
The man in the beard sees him to his front door and the man in the suit waves at us both and almost falls over. When we get back to the family-man’s station wagon he says,
My name’s John. This is my family.
They all smile at me one by one. I was right about the seating arrangements.
Hi, I’m Elly. Thanks. Thanks for that. We shake hands and he heads off.
I’m not some no-hoper drunk, the man in the dusty suit had said to me.
I know you’re not mate. I know you’re not.