I’d seen them before, a twosome usually but sometimes with an addition, walking down the streets of our small town. Strange people I thought, certain too that other normal people would think the same. (I can really be very arrogant in my thoughts at times! Just as well others can’t read them.)
Anyway, the most outstanding of these two was the man. Tall, with a shaven head and two small piercing round eyes looking out from a most pugnacious face. No shirt, or jacket, even on the coldest of days; just a singlet showing off his somewhat skinny chest, narrow hips and long thin legs with great lace-up boots on his feet. His bulk seemed to increase too as he drew nearer. I could feel the animosity that came with him as he approached me. He bristled with it; ominously. And his look, when his eyes met mine, was quite belligerent. The message his look conveyed to me was, Ugh! You pathetic looking wimp. I should squash you with my boot, and watch it, ‘cos I just might!
I would sometimes proffer a timid greeting, given in a casual light-hearted way, in an attempt to inculcate his favour, if there was any favour to incul if you get my drift. Sometimes he answered! Fiercely, with eyebrows furrowed and knit tightly together looking down on me, surprised as if expecting a sudden attack from a pathetic looking wimp who had the audacity to address him. But I could never catch what it was he said as it was forced through clenched teeth. Perhaps it was just as well.
Sometimes I was spared the effort of a greeting as he was busy throwing words over his shoulder at the slight form of femininity trudging behind him. At times I thought he might have been completely stoned. But here’s the thing: he was the same person I had seen as a schoolboy, just a few years’ ago during my years as a teacher. There was a strangeness about him even then, when, despite being dressed as other schoolboys in his uniform he was never lost in the crowd. Something indefinable in his walk, his look, the way he held himself, together with a strange aloofness (bordering on the cloud-nine variety) suggested to me – vaguely – that something was out of kilter somewhere.
How easily I, at times, have thus appraised my fellow men. I wouldn’t say I judged them; more that I was able to assess or sum a person up fairly quickly. Of course I’ve also been wrong at times, and I certainly wasn’t sure in this case.
I saw this man again another time fairly recently, with the slight form of femininity. This time though it was different. This time they walked together, side by side, and he held her hand. And this time, in his other hand, he held a tiny bundle close against his chest. His look was still fierce but it was the fierceness of a man who has fathered a child. And should anyone have dared to challenge him about the baby being his I do believe his very look would have turned them to stone…
For me – and I’m sorry to have to say this, but – for me, I felt something was wrong. The picture just didn’t ring true. His eyes still lacked something; something that I would describe as the light and warmth of true fatherhood. Both of these qualities were missing, and I must confess my heart froze slightly with that realisation. Would what I thought of him as a person be passed on to the child? Wasn’t the pride I saw only there for himself? Was he really a father? Or had he simply supplied the male sperm that fertilised the egg?
Well, down the street they went. A brief and moving picture of three human souls that passed me on the street that day. Of their background, heritage and future fortune, I knew nothing, but I have thought much since then of the small bundle in that man’s arms. What of its life? Would the mother be a mother; the father a father? Would the child experience all that a human father may bestow – of warmth, love and care?
The strange man was there on the street again today, walking with another man (who appeared to be quite normal) and chatting as they walked. And she, the slight form of femininity, was back a pace or two as they walked before. No babe I saw, and I felt concerned by that. As I was about to turn away from the scene, still wondering, my eyes saw that she had stopped, head down, looking at her feet, while the two men walked on a little way. And do you know…the strange man noticed she was not following and he stopped too. Then pausing only a moment, he walked back to her and, placing his arm around her shoulders quite gently it seemed to me, leaned forward and spoke softly to her. They held each other briefly, before holding hands and joining the other, and they continued down the street.
It was then I thought this: could it be that I am the odd one out?
Dennis Crompton © 1995
