I was watching a thirsty pigeon at the bus terminus recently sipping from a microscopic puddle. In typical birdlike fashion, it thrust its beak firmly into the ground for a few seconds before ceasing and looking up at the sky, left and right, searchingly, anticipating perhaps the arrival of a hawk.
It is a bird’s nature, for sure, and this pigeon can be forgiven because several of its ilk were forced to flee bus shelters and railway stations — where they congregate in overwhelming numbers — after the authorities introduced a bird of prey in their midst.
On this day, as I gaze ahead for signs of the bus, I espy a familiar figure approaching. Momentarily, I contemplate fleeing. The figure is not exactly what I’d describe as a hawk, but nevertheless one I’d like to avoid. I quickly insert my headphones. People usually leave you alone if you’re listening to music.
The figure has a name, and it is Denis. Just as there are some people who bring sunshine when they walk into a room, Denis comes harnessed with thunderclouds. His entire life is a tapestry embroidered with the dark threads of complaint. He is slight of stature, but packed within that slender frame is a mighty big load of cynicism. I have had the misfortune of running into him on several occasions now. The effect is one of being trapped in a cul-de-sac — nowhere to run nowhere to hide.
I have heard his endless complaints about the slap-dash ways of young Indians here in Sydney on student visas but who hope to become fulltime citizens, with whom Denis has to work. The students, of course, are all engaged in part-time work, earning a bit of extra pocket money. The cleaning agency, of which Denis is now one of the senior members, doesn’t mind employing them as they can be had for a smaller fee.
Anyhow, Denis, who thinks I am of Greek descent for some reason, has no qualms about letting his Indian co-workers have it in my presence. And I think I have been brought up too well, too polite, to stop him in his stride.
It is with a shock I realise as I put on my headphones that I am indeed too indulgent. It suddenly dawns on me why Denis seeks me out rather than, say, my prankster friend Barney. Even as this thought assails me and the scales fall from my eyes I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder and there he is, the picture of gloom, trying desperately to look happy to see me.
I try desperately to look happy, too. If happiness has a moment of collective failure it is here and now.
Anyhow, Denis is oddly a bit chipper today. He has, he tells me, just the other day had an encounter from which he is not likely to recover. I stifle an evil thought. He has, says Denis, met and spoken with the great man. The great man? I wonder momentarily if he’s had some epiphanic experience. Honest, he says, it was Bill Gates. Really? I fear greatly for poor Bill, post-meeting, if indeed that took place. Apparently the world’s richest man decided to stop on his way through some IT exhibition to have a chat with the lowly and he picked our Denis out of the crowd to say hello to. Believe that, said Barney later, and you’ll believe anything. Anyway, according to Denis, who was standing near the entrance with his bucket and broom, Mr Gates paused and asked how he was doing and Denis, quick to seize an opportunity, issued a few complaints about heavy duty PCs and Mr Gates in turn listened attentively and said he would take some of those suggestions on board.
This is the point at which you generally call someone’s bluff or tell them not to waste your time. I, being me, nod interestedly. And I wonder later why it is that Denis constantly seeks me out.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
