Here it is: the infamous piece I wrote last semester in Sydney for my non-fiction writing course. Names have been changed to protect anonymity. Please remember that it's just an essay and drunks will be drunks (me included).
By George "It's potentially dangerous to walk down here at night in nice heels," Carrie says as she side steps the first wine-colored mess of vomit that starbursts the sidewalk on Broadway. "Lovely," I reply as our mob of 20-somethings passes the Tower Building, a fortress of ill-advised 70s architecture that is quite unnoticeable under the florescent spew of periodic street lights, except for one detail. I look back to make sure the "T" in "Tower" is still missing. "Ben," I say for the 4th time in 3 months, "You're gonna have to put the T back at some point, Man." His response is the same: "No way. Spoils of war!"
To date our group's 3am Broadway/George Street spoils include: 3 traffic cones, 2 construction signs, 1 art school banner, and the infamous T. We're out almost every weekend striding up George Street in
Melrose Place formation; the girls in tight-jeans, push-up bras, impossibly high-heels and lip stick that beer cans end up wearing more of than lips. The boys are in sneakers and board shorts they believe are rendered classy by collared shits and ties. Yet ours is probably one of the least disruptive and destructive crews to prowl Sydney's busiest street at night looking for cheap beer and, subsequently, vomit-suppressant kebabs. Nevertheless, on the way home, the boys will stop once more to piss on Christchurch St. Laurence (which has become tradition). Lindsey, the (male) 29-year-old, Canadian, ex-Seminary student, will once again remind us all that this is an Anglican church and, as a Catholic, it is his duty to micturate on lesser Christians.
By day the intersection which connects Broadway to George and meets up with Pitt, Lee and Quay at Railway Square is a mess of impatient pedestrians, screeching automobiles, and buses that weave in and out of traffic with kamikaze verve. Surprisingly, there is almost no litter; the street cleaners are here every morning to sweep away the previous night's transgressions.
By night traffic has decreased by almost 70 percent. The sidewalks are virtually deserted by all members of polite society. George Street belongs to the patrons of pubs who have either been thrown out for bad behavior or as a consequence of closing time. The streets are littered with uni kids who will do anything their alcohol-induced behavior permits, even defy death. After passing the Co-op Bookshop on this particular evening, Sam, our Finnish rebel, darts across Broadway without warning toward Bar Broadway. When we arrive at Pitt Street, Patel and Ben stroll across 4 lanes during a green light, screaming obscenities at honking drivers who have had to slam brakes or swerve in order to avoid manslaughter charges. Thankfully, not one of our testosterone poisoned friends has become a statistic. In 2003 alone 539 traffic accident fatalities were recorded in New South Wales.
Bathed in florescent light, George Street is the most natural environment for unnatural behavior. Autumn leaves lay dry and brown on the gray slab sidewalks as we pass Valentine Street. The ghost of early 20th century architecture looms over Winchester Ammunition's dark, barred store front. Busted windows hint at gapping dark spaces above. Cracked concrete facades wrinkle the surface of what was once new. It's an eerie ghost town but for the occasional group of passing, drunken disorderlies. Bar bouncers hulk like stone lions at the entrances to drinking establishments with forever watchful eyes.
Our group doubles back in an attempt to get into Side Bar. Every once in a while Aussies can get in but only if accompanied by Internationals. Three weeks prior I had put my arm around my Mudgee friend in an effort to politely surmount the bouncers' anti-boy, anti-locals policy. It had worked then but not tonight. They take a glance at "New York" written across the top edge of my driver's license and wave me in. However, Mudgee, Windsor, Casino and Dubbo are given the cold shoulder. "Only Internationals. Manager's orders." Casino Ben, our aggressive drunk, contorts his boyish face into what he hopes is a menacing expression as two others hold him back. "Fuck you, you racist prick," he shouts, "This is my fucking country!" The Manager's rules, once again, are rendered justifiable. Is it a coincidence that this recurring scenario happens kiddy corner to a sign proclaiming "Oz Experience" at a nearby travel shop? Perhaps I am reading too much into this.
After standing around for a while trying to agree on our next plan of attack, we head back toward the Great Southern. I hate it and so do most of us yet Lindsey and Patel take initiative and we're all are too drunk to argue. A contrast to the environs of Side Bar, the Southern is a brightly lit, nearly deserted pub with nothing to offer but ample toilet facilities. Almost immediately, Carrie and her high heels are up at the bar for a schooner of Carlton. She can hardly stand up at this point and the bartender hands her a glass of water instead. She accepts it without confrontation and collapses, lazy-eyed and dazed onto the nearest bar stool. Twenty minutes later I will be summoned by the bartender to check on her in the ladies' bathroom. She has been gone for 15 minutes but proves to be fine; just suffering from the usual drunken malaise.
At 3 am it's time to go. We spill out onto the sidewalk in no discernable formation except that the hungriest go first. Patel runs ahead of us up George, past a 24 convenience store, Johnson's Clothing, and 7 eleven, slamming each hanging, lit sign with his hand: one, two, three. "Patel! Patel! Wrong way, MACers [sic] is closed," our resident McDonald's expert, Dubbo Ben, yells. Back to Marathon Kebabs it is then. At this time of night, it is one of the only stores open in Railway Square. Those shopkeepers who are willing to brave late nights benefit immensely from satiating urges of drunken hunger (a primal craving that keeps many fast food establishments the world over in business). Of course, first the boys will stop to run across the street and urinate on the Anglicans.
I wait for the cross light while the rest dart across George past the glass wings that spread over Railway Square in front of the Mercure. I opt not to eat and dodge traffic at the same time. Apparently, I'm just being a "pussy," but it has kept me alive this long so I'll stick with my instincts. Lindsey ducks into the Sydney City Convenience Store to purchase himself a Cadbury Cream Egg. He'll heckle with the two gentlemen standing behind the counter to knock 20 cents off the price for one egg. I'd tell him to let it go but I know he won't despite the fact that he co-owns his father's multi-million dollar shipping business. Meanwhile, Martin from Windsor has found another traffic cone to add to our collection.
The sight of Broadway Shopping Mall signals that we're almost home and it's a good thing. The street sweepers have just driven past, brushing last night's crap from all sight. Carrie hangs off of me; her heels now wearing her hands instead of her feet. We turn onto Buckland Street and it becomes increasingly darker as we leave the bright lights of Broadway behind. It's time for Railway Square to become functional again for morning rush hour, blinded to nocturnal behavior of which has become routine.
Bibliography
http://www.rta.nsw.gov.au/roadsafety/accidents/statistics.html. Online. 6 June 2005.
