Whilst I was standing at the lights today on my way to work in Brookvale, as he does most days the gas worker ambles my way.

Eyes downcast beneath a truckers cap, picking his way along the footpath past the house with the Aboriginal flag in the window. He trundles along in overalls blue and stained as you might imagine a gas worker wears. His hands tell the stories of many labours found at the end of a shovels handle, a hammer’s determination or a sheet presses hiss.

A pot belly sticking out from under a round face filled with greying hair and to many lines. He looked like a man who’s radio’s both inside and out were constantly tuned to the classic rock 70’s of the Bay City Rollers and Sweet’s sounds colliding with ZZTOP. Many afternoon’s watching sports highlights spent in a tired recliner salvaged from the clean up with a few to many stains on cushions he never bothered to hide, and with a tallie in hand never really cared to.

Strange looks and uncomfortable stares start to flow his way from those of us waiting for the bus. I smiled, after all he is still human still a man in the world deserving of dignity and respect. Words are bubbling forth from his lips not going to anybody in particular just floating back in through the hairs in his ears to be found or lost again in the 70’s stations playing in his head. Is he crazy? his internal dialogue running out needing to be heard, or does he just enjoy his conversations with himself?