He's in the same spot on Bourke Street every day, down the hill from Parliament House. He arrives in the early morning gloom and stays until dusk. He settles his wiry frame on an upturned milk crate or sits on folded cardboard on the footpath. He leans back on the wall where an unoccupied warehouse meets a bookshop. Bourke Street's elegant plane trees shadow him from the morning sun and drip on his umbrella when it rains. Hundreds greet him. He shares a word and a smile with many. No-one knows much about him. His name is Tony Brooks. Everyone has a story. is is his, and it's not what you might think.