Girls night out

There were a few wheelchairs around town over the long weekend. Mainly women. In fact, did I see one being hassled, along with her companion, by a bouncer on Oxford Street ? I know it caused me to look twice, as I passed in traffic. No, surely not.....

Late Sunday night, I spotted two lookers rushing across York Street, laughing, excited. One wore a tight yellow singlet, accentuating her powerful, tanned shoulders. Sportsgirls in sportschairs. Lightweight, snap-lock wheels, fast and compact. As they drew abreast, I noticed on one girl, a massive burn scar the length of her bicep. A proud badge of courage. They both looked real cute. I wolf-whistled as they flashed by.

At Darling Harbour late at night, I picked up two sisters, a few years apart, the older one in a chair. The younger one, mature beyond her early twenties, was the boss. She had her sister and chair in the cab, in a jiffy. They were off to O’Malleys in the Cross, a notorious late-nite Irish pub. They were happy, excited, dressed-up and glamorous. The easy chat between them was so warm and sisterly, it gave me nostalgia.

From what I could gather, eavesdropping on their discreet conversation, was this : the older sister had recently pulled a bloke, and done a no-come-homer. This had caused their Mum, who they were very close to, some protective concern. They understood this, but still didn’t want Mum to worry, if older sis got lucky again and didn’t come home tonite. That was the plan anyway. So I decided to warn them, that the Irish will kill them with kindness. ‘Darling, I’ve gotta warn ya - there’s a lotta-drunken-Irishmen at O’Malleys’. ‘Yes, we know’, they laughed, ‘we know !’

On returning from dinner, I pulled up at a red light outside the Slip Inn. A voluptuous girl stands in front of the cab, and challenges me with open palms. I’ve forgotten to turn my Vacant light on. ‘Jump in’, I call. She climbs in the back with, ‘Well, you either want work or you don’t !’ She’s feisty and firing. ‘Yeah, sorry mate', I drawl, 'I was just looking for the prettiest girl’. ‘Very funny, you should be in comedy ’, she retorts.

This is her story - she’s a barmaid from a country town, in south-west NSW. In keeping with her famous profession, she’s blessed with beautiful breasts. And proud of them. Why did I mention that ? I dunno - I’m a bloke ? Anyway, this young woman had just that afternoon, driven 5 hours at high speed, to meet friends at King Street Wharf, for a big weekend in Sydney.

It's something I’ve done myself in the past, and I imagine her excitement. The phone calls in the preceding week, the new clothes, the plans, and the anticipation of partying in a place where nobody knows you. Very important for country girls. But she’s returning to her motel at midnight, shattered. Why ? Her Sydney friends stood her up ! Unbelieveable.

She has a real country personality and I have her laughing in no time. We have something in common. We both have ex mother-in-laws, in a nearby town to hers. We laugh - we love our ex mother-in-laws ! In Chippendale, the meter approaches $10 and she barks, ‘Stop the cab - I’m not paying more than $10. I’ve never paid more than $10 at home!’. I just laugh at her antics, telling her it's a bullshit city trick. I've had it before. She only has a 10 minute walk, but there’s no way I’m letting her out, late at night, in the hardest neighbourhood in town. But she’s adamant, in that earnest country manner, ‘No, no, I really mean it, stop the cab !’

Finally, to settle her down, I tell her the truth, ‘Listen darling, if I let you out here, you know what's going to happen ? I’m going to wake up tomorrow and see your name in the paper. And you know how that’s going to make me feel ? I’ve got to then - go and give a police statement - do an ID at the morgue - deal with the press - go to the funeral - talk to your family - time off work for an inquest - a committal hearing, and then a trial - mate, it’s just not worth it. For the extra coupla bucks, I’ll do it for free !’

‘Oh’, she responds, dropping her bottom lip and feigning dejection, ‘I thought it was because you cared about me’. ‘Darling, you know I care about you - I always have - but I haven’t got time for your death !’

At the end, the fare is $12.80. She reaches $12 and I say, 'enough'. But no she’s honourable, and frigs around with coins, before finally producing the .80c. She alights the vehicle, happy and continuing the friendly banter, maybe the best she’s had all day. Suddenly she’s at my window-well her breasts are-with a hand on my shoulder demanding the .80c back. There is another girl waiting there for a cab, ‘I just got you another fare, so give me my .80c back !’ she jokes. I hand her the money and we depart laughing.

In stark contrast to my new passenger. She is cool, unresponsive and remains detached, all the way to Edgecliff. Which is cool....it gives me a chance to return to my weekly, country music program, featuring a Slim Dusty retrospective. Slim is huge in Edgecliff. Especially late on a Saturday nite...after 6 hours of high-NRG trance. Or whatever they call it.

Comments

[slatts]

Splendid stuff, again.