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