The Man Everyone Knew

Ten thirty was morning tea, the first break of the day. Every morning I’d push my chair under my computer and wander downstairs, out onto the street. Only a few minutes before I had to get back to work, but long enough for a cheeky smoke break. This morning I’d run out. I walked quickly up Union street to Frank’s corner shop. On the step outside sat Colin.

Everyone in Newcastle knew Colin. Or Pete. Or Chris. It depended on who you asked. Black rags that long ago used to be clothes. Bare feet and wrinkled hands etched in grime. A long grey beard that poked out from the front of his hood, hiding almost all of his face except for those piercing blue eyes. I watched as I waited in line. He just sat there. Not moving. Not speaking. Sitting. Cigarettes bought I carefully unwrapped the cellophane and tore out the foil.

“Morning, Pete” said Frank, placing a large coffee on the step beside him. Frank picked up the two dollar coin from the step and dropped it in the Westpac Rescue Helicopter fundraising tin on the counter.

Colin gave him a small nod, continuing to stare at the workers club. Frank never shooed him away. Nobody ever did. Everyone had theories about him, his past, what he knew. What he saw with those piercing blue eyes. Sometimes it felt as though he looked straight through the traffic, the people, the buildings. Then, every now and then, his eyes would settle on something in front of him. The briefest moment, before drifting away again.

A few days later, the same thing. The same rush across the street for smokes during my break from the office. There he was, sitting on the steps outside Frank’s. The same thousand yard stare. I bought my smokes, unwrapped them as normal. I was standing on the footpath, lighter in hand when I caught his eye.

“Want one, Colin?” I asked.

He nodded. He took the cigarette and moved a few yards down from the shop and sat on the low wall outside the bank. He lit his smoke, handing me the lighter as I sat down. We smoked. We didn’t talk. We just sat, his eyes always across the street. When it was over, when the cigarette turned to ash, he ground the butt into the pavement with his foot. Then he stood up, paused for a moment. The slightest nod. Then he walked off, heading to the beach. I sat on the wall, the last embers burning my fingertips and watched him leave.

I didn’t see Colin for a week or so. Never thought anything of it at first. Sometimes he was there all the time. Other times it was like he vanished. If he wasn’t outside Franks, he’d be walking. Wickham back to Nobby’s. Rain or shine. Always the same slow shuffle. Sometimes with a faint cloud of smoke drifting out of his hood. I was on my way back from Frank’s when I finally saw him again, sitting on a small patch of grass, leaning against the fire station, his eyes trained on the state government offices. A brutalist block of concrete planted into Bull street. From where he sat you could see the new works, the city changing shape. I paused, offered him a cigarette. He rose, shielding his face from the wind as he lit it.

“You okay Colin?” I asked. For nearly half the cigarette he said nothing.

“Cold,” he eventually replied.

I tried to offer him a little cash, to buy himself some food. He didn’t even register the ten dollar note I held out to him. So I tucked it into his top pocket. We stood, leaning on the fire station, his eyes never leaving the government building. The harsh lines, the dark windows, the strange concrete monolith in the small plaza. When he finished, he stubbed out the cigarette butt with his foot and gave the slightest nod towards the building. When I looked back, he was already turning onto Union street.

The next day I left work to get my lunch from the French Hot Bread shop on Hunter street. A cozy little place, run by a fierce, warm-heated Vietnamese lady. I ordered my usual banh mi and coffee. Sitting on the step was Colin, watching the trains run down the tracks across the road. As I approached, Mai stepped out from behind the counter and picked up a two dollar coin sitting on the step beside Colin. She handed him a large sausage roll and a takeaway coffee in her hand.

“There you go Chris, anything else you’d like?” she asked with a breezy smile.

Colin looked at her and slowly shook his head “no”, then his eyes fell back on the trains, the sausage roll crumbs gathering on his beard. He broke off a small piece, tossing it to the pigeons on the footpath, watching them fight and squabble for it. Colin always moved slowly, silently. He didn’t slurp his coffee, didn’t crunch his sausage roll. But if you took your eyes off him he could cover a great distance. Mai handed me my banh mi and I left.

“See you later Colin” I said. Colin didn’t react.

That weekend a lot of Newcastle gathered on the foreshore neart Fort Scratchley, the naval guns large and looming over the crowd. Standing off to the side, his beard poking from his hood was Colin. Silently watching the seagulls as they fought for the chips the children had thrown. The Westpac Rescue helicopter passed low overhead, circling the fort. A demonstration of how they’d rescue someone trapped on a cliff face.

I stood in the crowd, awed by the skill of the pilot, amazed at how he could keep the chopper so still in the gusting off-shore winds. A car rolled through, a loud backfire as it bunny-hopped down pit lane. I took a step back, nearly falling into the bushes. There, hidden away in the shrubbery was Colin, his blue eyes cold with fear.

“You alright mate?” I asked. Colin didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on mine. For the first time I could remember. For a long moment, not a word was spoken.

“Smoke?” I asked him. The spell broken, he gratefully took the offered smoke, looking out over the harbour to Stockton. He stayed sitting, hidden in the bush while he smoked. When the chopper flew away, he stood up, stubbed out the butt with his foot and slowly walked away.

That night I did what every Novacastrian of age would do on a Saturday night. I went to the pub. My local, the Lucky. Sitting with my mates in one of the booths, I had to relate what happened with Colin.

“Colin? I thought his name’s Richard, a real dick who walked out on his family and never went back” said Mary.

“Can’t see him doing that, doesn’t seem to have a bad bone in his body” replied Steph.

“I heard John was a Vietnam Vet who got drafted in the lottery and lost his marbles over there,” said Mick as he drained his schooner.

“You believe that?” I asked.

“As good as any,” shrugged Mick. “What I don’t get is why he walks everywhere. Like, can you remember the last time you went a month without seeing him walking down Hunter street?”

The Sunday morning ritual, the meet up on Darby street. A new cafe had opened up on the strip and my friends were eager to try it out for brunch. Checking my deck, I realised I’d need a fresh pack of cigarettes so I stopped in at Franks on my morning walk. A quick story about the old times, Frank was waxing lyrical about the time a man was arrested for driving under the influence on a stolen horse in Mayfield. I asked if he knew anything about Colin.

“He started coming round here ten, maybe twenty years ago. Don’t know anything about him, ‘cept he always pays something for his coffee.”

I stood on the step, carefully unwrapping the cellophane and tearing out the foil. I pulled the first from the deck, fumbling in my pocket for my lighter and looking around to offer one to Colin. But he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I shrugged, lit one for myself, slipped the pack into my pocket and headed off to to the cafe.

Cutting through Civic Park, I passed by the spray of the Captain Cook fountain, walking through the narrow paths under the trees. Stopping as I neared the edge of the park to watch the workers pulling down the last of the scaffolding on the building opposite. Final repairworks after the earthquake. Tall, imposing, harsh lines. A strong steel fence surrounding the concrete carpark. I’d forgotten what it looked like, the repairs had taken so long.

First to arrive at the Three Monkeys cafe, inside was already busy, the back courtyard full, so I claimed the spot. Outside, on the footpath, shaded by an umbrella. The traffic crawling past as it always did. All black BMW’s and silver Mercedes in this part of town. Steph was first to arrive, all big smiles and bright eyes, she couldn’t help but tell me every intricate detail of the latest romantic drama in her office. I smiled a little, nodding as I listened. Soon everyone was there, orders made. My friends laughing and joking. A light breakfast, a takeaway coffee, and soon we were parting ways.

I cut through the backstreets on my walk home, through one of the oldest parts of town. It used to be seedy, a swamp of depravity, the kind of streets most people would visit after dark. Now, gentrified. Full of families and pre-schools, kids playing in the front yard. A chopper flew overhead. I didn’t look up. Just paused for a moment beside one of the trees, sipping my coffee and waiting. It flew on and I started walking again. My feet beating a slow rhythm on the concrete.

I lived out the routine. Walking to work, stopping at Franks in the morning. Visiting Mai at the French Hot Bread shop for lunch. Walking home. Sipping coffee. But the city felt wrong somehow. Different. It was a few weeks later, maybe a month, I stopped by Franks during my morning tea break. Colin was there, sitting on the wall outside the bank. My shoulders dropped, releasing a tension I didn’t know I was carrying. He shuffled down the wall, giving me the sunny spot. I walked over to him, silently offering him a smoke. He handed back my lighter and I sat with him in silence as we looked at the workers club. About halfway through the cigarette I asked him.

“See you tomorrow Colin?”

“Don’t want to go back” he said, his clear blue eyes glistening. He ground the butt into the concrete with his foot. Then he stood up, the slightest nod and headed off to the beach.