20021
Right of Reply by Trish Lemberg
Main BodyHis name was Jimmy Paradise. When he hobbled along the street towards me, leaning on his long wooden crutch, I would cringe with fear in case he stopped to speak to me, a little girl - or touch me with his gnarled hands, long fingernails curled like the claws of an eagle.
His beard straggled, unkempt; his clothes were old and tattered, an irremovable part of himself; his bald head circled by a fringe of grey hair. It was clear even to a little girl that he slept in his clothes. His shoes flopped on feet sans laces or socks, no matter what the weather.
One time the strangest thing happened. I dared to raise my eyes when he hobbled towards me as I was on my way to school. I was hypnotised by the twinkle in eyes that met mine and I'm sure that an eyelid lowered in a saucy wink. I'm equally sure that I probably took to my little heels in shock!
Where he came from no one seemed to know, and where he slept I had no idea.
One unforgettable time I happened to be on the main street of our little town when I saw him leaning on his crutch in front of the drapery store. He was staring at a sign for Petone Knitwear. I knew the sign well and wondered if I'd heard correctly when he slowly spelled out the letters 'p - e - t - o - n - e,' then uttered - not the word 'Petone,' - but 'Pet One!'
I remember giggling at his version of the sign that I knew so well, without a thought that the letters could mean something else. Much later I realised that the tattered relic of a homeless man was not entirely uneducated - he could think! This was probably my first encounter with 'lateral thinking,' though I didn't realise it then.
I wish I'd asked someone where he came from, where he lived, what he'd done for a living, and why the lame foot… Alas, too late now. He has long-since passed away, but for me, he will never be forgotten.
“Here she comes, little blondie. She avoids me if she can, this serious child with her round face covered in freckles. Her straight hair cut with a fringe makes her look like a blonde Chinese doll. I'm sure she'd faint if I touched that golden hair! But I mustn't tease her.
“One day she stopped to knock a stone out of her shoe. She looked up at me in fright as I happened by - and I winked at her! She nearly died of shock - poor girl. She hesitated, squatting there beside me. She seemed to be wondering what to do, how to get away from me. Eventually she must have made up her mind. She raised her head and looked me in the eye - then smiled at me, such a beautiful smile, before she scampered away. It made my day.
“They think I'm simple, the folk who live around here. They see me at the railway station every time some young fellow goes overseas, and I'm there to welcome them home again when they've done their bit for our country. It's the least I can do to show them how I appreciate what they do for us.
“What do I care what they think of me? What difference does it make? Nothing matters now, just somewhere to sleep at night and the meals they give me at the pub. No one knows how they look after me - me, just a vagabond wandering the streets of this small town - living on the charity of others.
“How did I come to this? Things went wrong - the accident, this foot, those months in hospital. No matter what they tried, they couldn't make it right again. And now I'm nothing but a 'bum!' No one cares, except them at the pub. Some day when I don't turn up for a meal, there I'll be, stiff and cold - no more worries.
“I hope they give me a decent send-off before they plant me in the graveyard on the hill and maybe the little girl will be there to wish me 'God speed' before they shovel the earth on top of me and walk away.”
'Right of Reply' was written for the Memoir & Local History Competition 2011, run annually by the New Zealand Society of Authors (Bay of Plenty Region) with support from Tauranga Writers.
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This page archived at Perma CC in October of 2016: https://perma.cc/L7M5-Z52M
His beard straggled, unkempt; his clothes were old and tattered, an irremovable part of himself; his bald head circled by a fringe of grey hair. It was clear even to a little girl that he slept in his clothes. His shoes flopped on feet sans laces or socks, no matter what the weather.
One time the strangest thing happened. I dared to raise my eyes when he hobbled towards me as I was on my way to school. I was hypnotised by the twinkle in eyes that met mine and I'm sure that an eyelid lowered in a saucy wink. I'm equally sure that I probably took to my little heels in shock!
Where he came from no one seemed to know, and where he slept I had no idea.
One unforgettable time I happened to be on the main street of our little town when I saw him leaning on his crutch in front of the drapery store. He was staring at a sign for Petone Knitwear. I knew the sign well and wondered if I'd heard correctly when he slowly spelled out the letters 'p - e - t - o - n - e,' then uttered - not the word 'Petone,' - but 'Pet One!'
I remember giggling at his version of the sign that I knew so well, without a thought that the letters could mean something else. Much later I realised that the tattered relic of a homeless man was not entirely uneducated - he could think! This was probably my first encounter with 'lateral thinking,' though I didn't realise it then.
I wish I'd asked someone where he came from, where he lived, what he'd done for a living, and why the lame foot… Alas, too late now. He has long-since passed away, but for me, he will never be forgotten.
“Here she comes, little blondie. She avoids me if she can, this serious child with her round face covered in freckles. Her straight hair cut with a fringe makes her look like a blonde Chinese doll. I'm sure she'd faint if I touched that golden hair! But I mustn't tease her.
“One day she stopped to knock a stone out of her shoe. She looked up at me in fright as I happened by - and I winked at her! She nearly died of shock - poor girl. She hesitated, squatting there beside me. She seemed to be wondering what to do, how to get away from me. Eventually she must have made up her mind. She raised her head and looked me in the eye - then smiled at me, such a beautiful smile, before she scampered away. It made my day.
“They think I'm simple, the folk who live around here. They see me at the railway station every time some young fellow goes overseas, and I'm there to welcome them home again when they've done their bit for our country. It's the least I can do to show them how I appreciate what they do for us.
“What do I care what they think of me? What difference does it make? Nothing matters now, just somewhere to sleep at night and the meals they give me at the pub. No one knows how they look after me - me, just a vagabond wandering the streets of this small town - living on the charity of others.
“How did I come to this? Things went wrong - the accident, this foot, those months in hospital. No matter what they tried, they couldn't make it right again. And now I'm nothing but a 'bum!' No one cares, except them at the pub. Some day when I don't turn up for a meal, there I'll be, stiff and cold - no more worries.
“I hope they give me a decent send-off before they plant me in the graveyard on the hill and maybe the little girl will be there to wish me 'God speed' before they shovel the earth on top of me and walk away.”
'Right of Reply' was written for the Memoir & Local History Competition 2011, run annually by the New Zealand Society of Authors (Bay of Plenty Region) with support from Tauranga Writers.
—-
This page archived at Perma CC in October of 2016: https://perma.cc/L7M5-Z52M
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AcknowledgementTe Ao Mārama - Tauranga City Libraries
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AuthorTrish LembergArchived Kete Linkhttps://perma.cc/L7M5-Z52MType of ContributionCommunity storyTaxonomyStories | Events
Trish Lemberg, Right of Reply by Trish Lemberg. Pae Korokī, accessed 27/03/2025, https://paekoroki.tauranga.govt.nz/nodes/view/20021
