and then our exile

i will call him joe. he was settling himself against the wall of the underpass when i rushed to the conference centre the first morning. an aboriginal wearing a synthetic jacket, he had deep lines around his eyes, he was positioning a newspaper on the slushy concrete to sit cross-legged, a worn tracksuit, the skin on his hands looked hardened, cold. i tried to smile at him, nod a 'morning, but felt suddenly what i was trying to do. to recognize him as a human being, i pretended, it is the noble thing to do - and yet how horrible to do this before taking the stairs two at a time (as i was doing, there, just then) into the red carpet of the ottawa conference centre, to take my seat before a red placard, engage in days of play-acting, constructing conflicts over meaningless words, wearing a suitjacket chosen because taqa said it looked sexy. i froze, lowered my eyes, leapt the rest of the stairs, turned into the vestibule, adjusted my nametag.

he was there hours later when we left after the sessions, our voices loud, to lunch in the rideau centre. "can you help out," he looked up, said slowly, "i'm working on my Ph.D." he clearly meant it as a joke, he stressed each syllable, drawing out Pee hache Dee. r laughed as he fished in his pocket for change. he probably does have a ph.d, s said as we waited at the traffic lights, and then told a story about a homeless man with a ph.d. i felt sick.

the next day he was there again, he said as we passed - "can you help out?" his eyes were vacant, he was sitting on a dirty newspaper, a worn tracksuit. "i'm working on my Ph.D." he drew out each syllable.

nights later i took time to wander alone, through shadows and among streetlights, i met him walking by the Market, eating noodles from a styrofoam package, an absent smile on his face.

a sort of shame, which did not let me honestly meet his eyes.

i'll probably never see him again.