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The laneway next to his patch was a favourite graffiti spot. Most days someone was there, or had just been there, sharing their take on the world or working out their angst by spraying the walls.
He had his regulars, many of them, we liked his gentle, polite ways, were intrigued by the stories he told, and inclined to believe there was hope for him, whether or not his stories were entirely accurate.
Like the night he'd stolen, well, borrowed really, as he'd have it, a tram. He didn't recall why, but it was great fun to drive. He’d jumped into the driver’s cabin while the driver was taking a toilet break at the exchange.
“You wouldn’t believe how easy it was to grab that tram and just drive it away in it!” his eyes lit up like a child’s at Christmas.
“I had the time of my life. There were only a few passengers and I don’t remember one of them moving or saying one word the whole time I was driving. You are aboard the bi-polar express. This tram will run all the way to the beach, no stopping, I told them. I loved using the microphone too. And ringing the bell! It was marvellous!
“They said I crashed it. But I did not. I just stopped it when I’d had enough. Someone told the cops on me. They were waiting for me at the beach. I was only having fun. I had nothing else to do and a bloke’s got to have something to do with himself. I didn’t hurt anyone or damage the tram. They put me away though.” His head went down again, his body slumped and he began swaying on the spot with his hand out. The muted light that we’d seen glimmering in his eyes as he told his tale, went out again.
