The man was homeless but he still refused my fancy leftovers

The phone rang with good news. I’d won a prize for writing a story and I was $50,000 better off. So I called the fanciest restaurant in our salt-encrusted town and made a booking for two. Sarah and I spruced ourselves up and drank a bottle of champagne and walked down the hill arm-in-arm.

They seated us closely sandwiched between two other couples, but I swore to myself I wouldn’t eavesdrop tonight. I’d have the night off from being a writer. To celebrate we chose a bottle of WA red, because the prizemoney came from WA.

We started with bread cooked in the woodfire oven and burrata and anchovies. The waitress was adorable, but who isn’t when you’ve just had good news? She was from Brazil and hadn’t been diminished by the finer protocols of Australian service, still friendly, not having yet learned the industry-standard standoffishness. She readily joined our conversations.

Credit: Robin Cowcher

“You write stories? Oh, my brother in Sao Paulo is writing stories. He will be a writer.” She offered her world up freely and, missing our daughters on this night, we were quickly fond of her. I love to ask people where they’re from and all about their lives. And she was new enough here to be able to take it as an honour that I was interested in where she came from, not yet sufficiently educated to recognise a microaggression.

While I was eating my main course, a pork schnitzel with a side of duck-fat fried potatoes, Sarah asked softly, “Do you pay tax on a prize? Or is it a windfall?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. I suddenly had a vision of some sallow time-server in a rear-echelon dogbox at the ATO leaping from his unhappy hibernation and shouting, “Hurrah. I’ve got the bastard at last,” before red-flagging my file and gathering his snowdome and his highlighters and marching proudly from the building into retirement.

The food was wonderful, but we couldn’t eat it all. There was schnitzel and steak and a whole bowl of the delicious duck-fat potatoes left over. The waitress asked if we’d like to take it home and in jest I said, “Yeah pack it up, I’ll give it to the homeless guy.” She laid a hand on her chest and said, “Oh, would you? That would do my heart so much good. In Brazil, we don’t throw away any food. But here… I cross myself every time I throw food in the bin. I feel so guilty. I would be so happy if this food went to that man.”

I had intended to eat the potatoes cold for lunch and give the meat to the dog. But I was trapped now. How could I let her down? She’d locked me into feeding the homeless guy.

He was new in town. Both as a type and as a man. The town had no homeless people before him, and I suspect once he is gone there will be none to follow. His virtues as a citizen were debatable – people wrestled with the need to be kind and the need not to have homeless dudes setting up camp in their doorways. He’d made a nest on the footpath outside a Japanese restaurant and was getting about 18 hours sleep a day there. Or maybe it wasn’t sleep as much as just a refusal to be present in this, here, now – what life had become.

I approached him, a prizewinner bearing gifts, a tipsy philanthropist passing on life’s good fortune. It was dark and drizzling and the man was submerged in bedding and I couldn’t see his face. I bent over him. “Excuse me mate.” “What?” he answered. “Would you like some dinner? I’ve got some lovely schnitzel. And duck-fat roast potatoes to die for. From the restaurant over the road. Still warm.”

“No. I’ve had dinner.”

This guy wasn’t playing the role of homeless dude in the time-honoured way, and I felt a little let down having just been sacked as his saviour.

“What did you have?” I asked.

“Sushi,” he said. God love the man. Sushi? This was trickle-down economics in exemplar.

“So, you’re OK, then?”

“Who wants spuds after a good feed of sushi?”

“Yeah… fair enough.”

I gave the schnitzel to the dog and ate the potatoes cold for lunch. They were delicious. But I can’t go back to that restaurant. I just couldn’t meet the waitress’ eye. Luckily, there’s good Japanese nearby.

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