‘OVER TIME HE WAS WIDELY AND SIMPLY REGARDED AS A LOCAL’
On the homeless man of Te Atatu
The homeless man of Te Atatu arrived on the peninsula last year sometime after lockdown. It’s always good to see a new face. Townhouses and other Unitary Plan boxes have brought in a lot of arrivals, and seem set to do so for many years; there are construction sites in various states of progress, and a man went door to door recently asking selected householders if they’re interested in selling to a developer. He came to my door.
The homeless man of Te Atatu set up his base in the village shops. There are two blocks of shops on the main street and I hoof around there most days. Peppermint Twist has icecreams, Refill Nation has pretzels and Sam’s Roast has — how did you know? — roasts. A new, very spacious library opened in 2015. One side overlooks Pringle Park, which is a nice spot for eating fish and chips beneath the shade of plane trees. The library backs on to a narrow alley on the other side.
The homeless man of Te Atatu lived in the narrow alley. His accommodation was a little miracle of efficiency and tidiness. It was a kind of homelessness set in the philosophy of Marie Kondo. He had very few possessions and each had its own exact place, including his gas stove. He rolled up his sleeping bag in the daytime. He kept everything tidier than you do in your home: his prize possession was a broom. I’d often see him sweeping the alley, and arranging his possessions.
The homeless man of Te Atatu was plainly mentally unwell. Poor guy. Where do we go wrong, is there a point of departure? Can you trace it back, and even if you could, does it really explain the way things turn out? Life is a mess. It’s a chaos, an anarchy and the best we can do about it sometimes is keep the lid on it, maintain a sort of law and order and hope things don’t spiral out of control. I’d see him sweeping the alley and think: he’s doing a really good job.
The homeless man of Te Atatu chose a lovely part of Auckland. The peninsula is sealed in by water — the harbour and two rivers — and makes it feel like an island. There are stilts and oystercatchers and, sometimes, royal spoonbills; there are horses in a paddock and rabbits and quail in long grass. I’ve lived here for about 10 years and don’t much feel like ever moving but my house is probably going on the market soon.
The homeless man of Te Atatu wasn’t, apparently, homeless. According to inquiries, his father is a lawyer. He left home because he didn’t want to live there anymore and decided to rough it. He didn’t beg, he didn’t drink, he didn’t sleep in the daytime. He bought shirts from Te Atatu Menswear — his preferred brand was Canterbury — and shopped for supplies at Countdown. Over time, he was widely and simply regarded as a local.
The homeless man of Te Atatu plainly needed help. He shouted at a passer-by: “You walk funny!” That wasn’t very nice. I spoke with him once. I thought it might be a good idea to tell him that his tidiness had been noticed and was appreciated, so I stopped by and said to him: “You keep a really clean ship. Good on you, mate.” He stared at me angrily and said: “Are you mocking me?” I replied: “No, not at all! I came to give you a compliment!” He said through clenched teeth: “Move on. Get away from me.”
The homeless man of Te Atatu left at Christmas, returned after the New Year, and has gone again. I hope he’s going to be all right. I kind of miss him. Whenever I walk past that narrow alleyway, I always look to see if he’s come back; I always hope to see his broom. But there’s just an empty space. He’s disappeared from the peninsula. He’s left the island.
NEXT WEEK: Diana Wichtel