The Vagrant
magine a man. A very ordinary man. On the short side, slightly overweight but with the appearance of
being hungry rather than well-fed, pot-belly supported by spindly legs like a small child. Like a child he too has a
grimy face, you can almost see the runny nose and tear stained cheeks. Your eyes follow his gaze down, past his dirty
t-shirt, past his scruffy, torn shorts, down his grimy legs - are his knees really scuffed and scratched? - to his feet, clad
in thongs, the toe nails split and dirty, or maybe to socks fallen down around his ankles, sandshoes scuffed and torn,
the backs trodden down by years of being put on without undoing the shoelaces. The laces themselves are knotted,
and have been for an eternity.
As you draw near the sense of the child in the man grows stronger, despite the acrid smell of unwashed body, stale tobacco and even staler liquor. He carries his sustenance in a brown paper bag - he holds his port, or is it sherry or methylated spirits, like a baby holds its bottle. His hair is untidy, unwashed, unkempt, thinning on the top. Under the grime the skin has been burnt by so much wind and sun, and the features are so distorted by age and weather it is hard to decide what his ethnic background. But look carefully through the grime, take in the face in careful doses - the eyes, though blood shot and rheumy, are a crystal blue, now vacant but still with a hint of the thirst for knowledge they once possessed. Beneath the grime, the weathered finish and greying beard, shaggy and unkempt like the hair - "a place for rats and mice!" the children sing on their way home from school - the skin is soft, once warm and smooth, now lined with blood vessels like a relief map laying out the years of pain, suffering and failure, but still the skin is soft.
Where does he come from? No-one knows, no-one cares. Like many another before him, he creates for the observer only a feeling of discomfort, displeasure - like the mouse the cat brings in dirty, smelly and - dead. But he is not dead, not yet. Hear him when he's well away, he will tell you of the wrongs of the world, and how to put them right. There's nowhere he has not been, nothing he has not seen or done.
He's had more, and lost more, than anyone else in the world, except perhaps old Bill, God rest his soul. He sees all through those rheumy eyes, the lovers in spring, the young parents in summer, the grown families in autumn and Derby and Joan in winter, bickering and picking but still, in their own way, very much in love. Perhaps he had his own family once, a wife in twin set and pearls (he looks that old), or maybe she was a flower child (if he's really younger - its hard to say). Maybe he had children - he never says if he did, which is odd because he talks of his life in detail, but only as one person.
Does he miss the past? you ask, as you fight your way through his aura and your prejudices. No, he replies, why should he, what has the past brought him but pain and suffering. Was not he there when they opened up the gates of Auschwitz, when the first prisoners stumbled out of the pit called Changi. He has worked the Burma railway, fought at Xa Long Tan, he has been the other side of the border - why go back. There is nothing there he wants.... except, perhaps to show this new generation what it was really like. Not just the war, the depression, the 'golden' years. Just to show that no-one learns from the mistakes of history. There is only one history which keeps repeating itself age after age after age.
"Do you know that only in Australia and Italy are the house roofs red?" he asks, changing the subject, for your comfort or his? "The rest of the world uses roofs of institution grey, or no roofs at all, and yet we still regard the Italians, not as brothers, but as strangers - wops, dagos, greasers - like we did in the days of our youth and ignorance." You might begin to understand what he is saying, what he means. After all, if we all sleep under the same colour roof we must be brothers of a sort.
He takes a drink from his bottle, like an infant sucking on its pacifier, and begins to ramble. You shake your head, part in sorrow, part in wonder. As you turn away to continue your journey he reaches out to stop you. As he touches your arm you realise that this action may be the closest he has come to real human contact in many years, probably more years than you have been alive. Can you really turn from him, he has much he can teach you, if you are prepared to listen, and more that you can teach him. You, and you alone, can show that someone really cares, not just for 'charity' or a place in the good book, not for personal gain of any kind. A simple, human sharing of experience and caring - and interest.
Be patient and listen. Give Experience a chance to speak. You are the pupil, he the child. Learn to listen to the feelings, heart and history of the man, not just his words. He has a gift to pass on more valuable than gold, more important than money, more sacred than book religion. He can give the gift of meaning and truth. He is too old to pass on lies. They are a waste of time and effort, too unimportant to rate more than a passing mention, a yardstick for the fact he is passing on. His lecture is not egocentric, he is giving freely of the wisdom of the world, of all who have reached his age and shared his past. In another age he would have been a wise man, a seer, the story teller - a man to be revered and cherished, given the best wine and the best food, looked after by people who cared almost more about his words than his body. And no-one would have been concerned about his soul, for he has that part of him very well within his control.
Ah, but that was then. Now it is easier to feed the body, and leave the mind to its own devices. Keep the hands nimble with basket weaving, play games to exercise the 'mind', their mind not his. A warm bed and a roof over his head, what more could he want? A nice blanket bath, Mr Smith? Don't worry about the future, we'll look after you. What's that you say, you want to go outside and walk in the rain, but you'll catch pneumonia and then we'll have to nurse you. Now you don't want to be a nuisance, do you? We've heard it all before, Mr Jones. You really can be an awful bore. No, dear, its quite alright, we aren't upsetting him, can't you see he barely knows we are here let alone what we're saying to him. Off in a world of his own. Living in his own imagination. As if anyone could or would do the things he imagines he has done.
In the end what have we achieved, we've deodorised, institutionalised, sterilised and anaesthetised our past, present and future. Perhaps, next time (if we are allowed a next time, a chance to break the mould and finally learn from our mistakes) we might just try listening.
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