The Guilt Trip

Most of us have secrets; things from our past which might shame us, or scare us, or possibly even haunt us. We try our best to hide them, to forget them, or ignore them, but they are always there, just waiting for precisely the right moment to rear their ugly heads and return to our consciousness.

I have a few of these little gems that are tucked away in the back of my mind. A couple of these are things I have done that I am not particularly proud of (nothing too serious, of course), but I'd like to think that I've learned from the mistakes made by the much younger me. The other is something that haunts me. I wasn't responsible for what happened, but the question I often ask myself is, "Could I have made a difference?"

You see, about fifteen years ago (give or take a year or three), a man died. I didn't know him. I had never met him. I didn't even talk to him. But, rightly or wrongly, his death has always played on my mind.

It happened just on sunset one very cool autumn evening. It was a Saturday. The nights had been cold of late, followed by heavy frosts, and that night would be no different.

On my way home from wherever I had been that day, I stopped at a local park to use the rest rooms. As I crossed the park there he was, sitting on a bench, a disheveled looking fellow, hurling abuse at anyone who happened to even look in his direction, and there were a few of these. At that particular moment the victim was a guy who I had just seen leave the rest rooms. I watched as he tried going sideways to avoid the aggressor, and at the same time I changed direction myself, choosing to take a longer route to the doorway.

When I entered the facilities I could still hear him yelling at people outside. It was obvious (to me at least) that he was off his face on drugs, or alcohol, or both. A few moments later I heard a fresh round of abuse, as he must have found another victim at which to spew his incomprehensible bile -- he could have been speaking in tongues for all I knew -- then I heard the sound of someone running, getting louder as whomever it was approached the building I was in and then seemed to run straight past it. I listened as the sound of footsteps faded away.

Hurriedly I did what I needed to do, then exited the building, taking care to try and stay as far as possible away from the madman, who I could still hear ranting and raving. I felt sure that some of it was now being directed at me.

Shortly afterwards I made it back to my vehicle and climbed inside. I sat there for a few minutes, finding myself actually shaking slightly and wondering what I should do, or even if I should do anything at all. Other than try and talk to the guy (which wasn't going to happen) I figured my only options would be to, (a) call 000 (the Aussie equivalent of 911) to report the disturbance, or (b) leave well enough alone.

I chose the latter option, eventually figuring that it wasn't really anything to do with me, then I started my car and drove home.

After that I barely gave the incident another thought, at least not until the following morning when I had to drive into town again for some supplies. It was about nine a.m. and the remnants of last night's frost were still hanging around upon ground that had yet to be touched by the sun. As I approached the park I was surprised to see a police car with lights flashing parked on a corner. Naturally enough I slowed and could soon see, a short distance away, a large section of the park had been cordoned off with blue and white Police tape. Several young constables were standing guard and looking rather somber. Looking past them I soon noticed a tarpaulin covered mound laying out in the open, from beneath which a pair of feet were protruding.

At that stage of my life this was the first dead body I had ever seen and it shocked me.

In the days that followed there was much speculation buzzing around town. Facebook was abuzz and our local newspaper also reported "the death of a vagrant in the park". The man's name was reported in various places and it was the same name as that of a well known local businessman, but I knew this person was not him. Perhaps they did share the same name, but the man I had seen mouthing off in the park was not the man I knew.

We didn't ever find out much more about the man who died. I don't even know if he was a local or someone just passing through.

I know I wasn't to blame and in reality there was probably nothing I could have done that would have made a difference. Perhaps, as I sat in the car still shaking, I could have made that 000 phone call I had contemplated making, but who can say whether or not it really may have changed the outcome.

The recurring thought I have, however, is "What if?"

It is something about which I will always wonder.