Fictions: Ginger Fred, the Pavement Artist
Gerry Huntman
I owe my life to Ginger Fred, but I can’t thank him because he’s gone.
I’m a real estate agent, and I’ve lived in Rievesport for ten years, lured by the prospect of the growing value of sea-side properties, and the increasing willingness of workers to commute the long distance to Melbourne—the Big Smoke. I used to work in the BS (as Lisa and I frequently call it) as a well-paid commercial lawyer, but the rat race got the better of me with a triple-bypass. I’m not disappointed with my sea-change; I’ve done well in my adopted town. I even have an office on the top floor of the four-storey Chamber of Commerce Building, the only structure with more than two floors in the entire town.
For all of my time in this locale I’ve been witness to a regular ritual carried out by the town’s itinerant dero, Ginger Fred. It was hard for me to miss, because his activity took place on the large cement paving area directly in front of the Rievesport Chamber of Commerce Building, in perfect view of my office window.
