He wore braces and a bowtie but we called him Beaky, on account of his nose. He sold beercans on the front, Stella Artoises plucked sweating from an ice-filled cooler. A man of few words but a great whistler of tunes. He was always there, a seasonal fixture, until one summer he wasn’t. It was a month or so before we noticed.
Nobody ever knew what happened to Beaky, or where he went. I doubt we could have found out, even if we’d cared. It was no big deal. People are like that, aren’t they? Transient. They don’t last. Not like buildings, say, or even a tree. You know where you are with a tree.