On the markets I ordered a cup of coffee under canvas, under trees. The fig trees in Brisbane are extraordinarily broad and they spread lumpy dragon roots as well as branches. “What name shall I put that under?” he wanted to know, and I said, “Toby.” The man looked me over thoughtfully. His eyes were bright and shrewd, his face seamed and gnomish. “Toby,” he said, almost spelling it out, as he wrote it down letter by letter. “That’s my coffee name,” I confided. He let out a shout of laughter. “That’s a good one!” “Uh, thanks,” I said. He said, “See, I’m retiring, and today is my last day.” “Oh, well!” I said, brightening. “In that case, congratulations on a working life well spent, I have no doubt. Here, let me shake your hand.” I stuck out my hand and we shook. He explained, “It’s just that it’s so great for something completely new and fresh to happen on the last day. I was not expecting that.” “My name’s hard to spell,” I told him, “it’s Cathoel, and I don’t like being called Cath. So if you had hollered out ‘coffee for Cath!’ that would have pissed me off.” He was laughing again. “Thanks, Cathoel. I’m so glad you showed up on my very last day.”