The wind was whipping along the length of Collins Street, leaving in its wake an avenue of brittle leaves.  As the evening began I made my way to dinner, head bower, determined.  It was about this time that the first small miracle occurred.  The miracle of the angel and the sailor.  I was transported to Albert Tucker's view of the '40s, but gone were the Victory Girls and the pain of war – replaced by a scene of peaceful beauty.
Sitting atop a guard rail beside a tram stop was a woman.  She looked resplendent in a full-length blue coat and from her back, pale pink lucent wings emerged.  The membranes quivered as she craned forward towards a young sailor.  Their mouths were inches apart.  As they waited for a tram, they almost kissed.  It was a magical vision of restrained passion.
Along the street trams rattled, igniting the air with electrical sparks.  Then, as I turned the corner into Russell Street, I was confronted with the second miracle: the miracle of the contumacious cars.
Two vehicles had approached a single parking space from opposite sides of the road.  Each driver must have seen the opening and, overcome with relief, cruised into the available space.  Imagine the sense of disappointment when another unseen suitor for the gap nudged one's bumper, challenging for possession.  It was a stand-off, a stalemate.
They stood their ground inside their cars, breath frosting on the glass.  It was just a matter of time.  Eventually one of the combatants would prevail and the other, nursing his wounds, would have to pay for a commercial park somewhere in a well-lit labyrinth of concrete.    The perfect park, like the fish that got away, was lost to them forever.  I was impressed by their stubbornness.  I applauded their stupidity.
After this incident I enjoyed a pleasant meal, interspersed with hasty conversation.  But what happened to me is largely unimportant, for when I trudged back up the road an hour later I discovered nothing had changed.   There sat our protagonists exactly where I had left them.  It was clear that this was far more than a mere battle of wills.  It was the archetype of confrontation.  This was the age-old struggle between father and son, experience and exuberance, maturity and youth.  In one car was a young couple, in the other an older man.
The car closer to me was a Mini Minor, and it contained the youngsters.  The guy might have recently acquired a backbone because of the object of desire who sat behind him.  She was Helen of troy, his Cleopatra, empires would fall and car parking spaces would be won in her name.  How could he retreat when he was only the sum total of what she believed him to be?  Besides, he was young, he had time on his side.  If he waited long enough, perhaps the old guy would die.
The other car, which sat diametrically opposed in perfect symmetry with the Mini, was an Australian classic: a rat-arsed copper Fairlaine and, visible through the bug-crusted windscreen, a well-worn Aussie face.  The driver had a brow so furrowed, small creatures could have passed unnoticed between his temples.  He had waited all his life for this park and was not about to let it be lost to some dole-bludging show-off with his fancy-dancin' lady friend.  After all it was Sunday night in the city, therefore this was the most fun he could have.  He could wait forever.
This was not road rage; it was passive-aggressive parking, auto-antagonism.  In America, someone would already have been shot.  And what thoughts were tumbling through their heads?  If only I had left home a minute earlier.  If only I'd driven faster.  If only I had an 18-wheeled monster truck to push that miserable dungheap into the oncoming traffic.   If only I had a gun.
I would like to believe they are still there, adhered to the moist Melbourne road.  Belligerently battling on, with a small crowd of onlookers feasting like vultures on the dumb display.  Concerned people would be bringing food, welfare agencies dropping off blankets, and the continued inaction splitting society down the middle.  Brawls in pubs, and heated coffee-shop conversations: "Are you for the Ford or the Mini?" If only one of them had been a Holden, it would have been exquisite.
And in years to come, a shrine would be erected to the "Miracle of Russell Street": a plaque and a bronze statue of two men with the combined brain power of Greyfriars Bobby who wasted away their lives in their bucket seats.
Elsewhere, life had moved on.  The sailor and the girl with angel wings had disappeared into the night.  That was how the evening ended:  two miracles without a moral.
 
 

--- Paul McDermott

The Australian Magazine, May 22 - 23, 1999