I met Jan about four or five years ago. He was a street beggar. He sat out in all weathers in his shoddy clothes, drinking beer and asking for money from passers by. He could have been in his early thirties. His face was frequently cut and bruised from falls, fights and other misfortunes. I occasionally stopped by and chatted to him for five minutes and heard little fragments from his sad life - a tale of broken relationships, a lost daughter, drugs and and alcohol abuse and prison. His English was excellent, with a clear southern accent and he was surprisingly articulate in his clearer moments. If I had my guitar with me, he always asked me to play something for him. From time to time I did.
One day, I played him the entire eight minutes of a ballad called "Johnny Petto", which is about two teenage runaways. He listened in studied silence and then said at the end, "That's about people like me, isn't it?"
I don't think I have ever derived more satisfaction from singing that song.
I haven't seen Jan for about two years, which probably means that he is dead. I enjoyed being with him for those precious minutes though. You don't get an audience like that every day.