Street man with a gentle soul

A copy of that day's newspaper was neatly folded on the steps of a disused office building in the city. To some it may have looked odd, but to those who knew Sonny it was a symbolic, touching tribute to the gentle soul who lived on the streets and had made those steps his home. Next to the paper were some flowers and messages to Sonny, who had died.

Just over a week earlier I'd been to a press conference held by the Premier of the country, and as I hurried back to the office I was greeted by the homeless man sitting on the steps. It was Sonny - who I'd first met almost 14 years earlier. I briefly stopped to chat, but as the rain began I told him I had to get going to write a story. That was the last time I saw Sonny.

I first met him in late 2005 or early 2006 on a different street, Par-La-Ville Road, not far from the newspaper office where I work. To begin with he was always in the same spot - seemingly content to have a small world that consisted of an area of bushes where he had his sleeping camp, and an upturned milk crate on the sidewalk where he would sit opposite the gas station. Occasionally he would take his crate and sit on the other side of the road, or he'd sit on the concrete bench that was there.

He had a pronounced lopsided walk, a shuffle that was distinctive even from a distance. His hair was long, dreadlocked and matted. When we first met I gave him a donation to buy a coffee or a sandwich. This would become a pattern as the months passed. We'd greet each other by name. He'd ask how I was doing as I came along the street and we'd strike up short conversations. Sonny was always pleasant and genuine, and as time went by it became less and less about helping him out - eventually he declined any such offerings and simply enjoyed being acknowledged and having a moment or two of conversation.

Sonny was always to be seen with a beat up copy of our newspaper. I guess he would pick up a discarded copy from wherever and read it from cover to cover - every day. If he wasn't reading the paper he would have an old paperback book - invariable missing its cover - lying among his small bundle of possessions.
He loved to read, and I was told by others who had known him most of their lives that he was very intelligent and had at one point worked for British Airways. What is the true story of Sonny's life I can't say for sure, although there are glimpses in a tribute published shortly after he died (link here).

Our occasional chats only ever lasted for a minute or two and were nearly always about how we were doing that day, how busy things were for me at the newspaper and, I recall, one occasion when he asked me why the newspaper was always repeating things. I wasn't sure what he meant at first, but soon deduced he was referring to the increasingly common practice of chunks of stories being 'rehashed' when a new piece of information appeared. This is usually done to give context and to benefit any reader who may not have seen the previous stories, but if it is lazily done I can imagine it would frustrate a regular reader. Sonny noticed things like this. It didn't frustrate him - I don't know if anything ever did - but it certainly made him inquisitive as to why it was.

In time, the authorities decided to thin out and landscape the area of bushes where Sonny had his hidden home. Sonny stayed in the area during the day, but now slept further down the street where he had laid claim to the doorstep of a disused former bank. That was his new home for some length of time, and even if I walked past and didn't see him I knew it was Sonny's spot from the small pile of blankets, books and copies of newspapers among the stashed belongings.

As the years passed Sonny continued to move around the city, finding new spots to call home. I would see him less frequently, partly because he was elsewhere and partly because my work hours had altered and I was more office-bound. I do remember seeing him on Front Street for a while, and then on the steps of the Anglican cathedral from where he would often call out my name as I walked on the opposite side of the road. I'd wave and call back, or cross the street and ask how he was doing.

Sonny, whose actual name was Reginald "Sonny" Furbert, always seemed at peace with his nomadic lifestyle. He never troubled or pestered anyone. He appeared to have all he needed to get by day-to-day and was happy simply to be acknowledged in some way and have a brief bit of interaction - a minute or two of chat.

Tribute: flowers (some in a coffee cup), and a copy of the day's newspaper
on the steps of the building where Sonny made his last street home

It was further along the street from the cathedral that Sonny set up what was to be his final street home. It was the front steps of a disused office building, and he laid claim to it, sitting under the protection of an overhanging porch that kept him dry if it rained. It was there that we exchanged greetings one day last month as I hurried back to the office having attended the Premier's press conference. Sonny wanted to know what I was doing. I told him I was on my way back to write a story before the rain started (it was already coming down lightly). It was an all too brief exchange, and one I would have made longer had I known it was to be our last.

Sonny often told me he kept an eye out for my name on stories in the paper. I'd like to think that the next day he would have been sitting on the steps looking through the paper to find out what story it was I had been hurrying back to the office to write.

A little over a week later I heard the news that Sonny, 70, had died; the newspaper's initial story was only two or three paragraphs long, but it was the most read news item on our website that day. Two days later I walked past the steps of the disused building, opposite the main post office, and saw the flowers and tributes that had been left - including a neatly folded copy of that day's newspaper.

Sonny was a gentle soul and someone you'd never forget if you took the time to befriend him. Farewell Sonny, until we meet again.