Two Incidents In Mitchell Street

1

There was a period when I would eat a salad sandwich and read the morning paper on the seat by the old Glebe Fire Station in Mitchell Street. That was a block downhill from Glebe Point Road and it was opposite the tiny house in which I had once lived. My old house was painted cream and so was the fire station which had been built in 1892. Inside now was a community hall, very small – as the engine,  horse-drawn or steam-powered – must have been. These days I have a road bike, or racing bike as I prefer to call it, and usually eat my first meal of the day much further afield. But that is another story.

One day I looked up from my paper to see a line of Aboriginal children all studying me earnestly. A much smaller, plump, blonde, white girl then ran up and joined them, puffing and eager. I forget how many of them there were – maybe five.

The girl in the middle, who was the tallest, asked me, ‘What’s your name?’

For some obscure reason I replied, ‘I’m Johnny Boy’.

As far back as I can remember I was rarely addressed as Johnny. Johnny Boy? Possibly never. I could speculate as to why this name popped out, but I don’t think it is necessary. Well, you know, maybe I wanted for a few moments to be Johhny Boy. Very seriously the girl introduced the others in turn: ‘This is Carol. This is Johnny Boy’, etc. And of course she introduced herself. The little plump girl then said, ‘I don’t live with them.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘You live next door?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Well, goodbye Johnny Boy,’ said the tall girl.

‘Goodbye,’ I said

‘Goodbye,’ came their echo.

Off they went, the little girl trotting on her plump legs to keep up. I imagine she spent a good part of the day like that, puffing and trotting to keep up.

2.

One day I was brunching on a salad sandwich and a bottle of ginger beer while reading the paper in front of the old Glebe Fire Station when two European women in their late middle years came up Mitchell Street from the direction of Harold Park. I didn’t notice them until they crossed Mitchell Lane and approached me, with a view to passing on a pamphlet purporting to tell me what I needed to know about God. They were both quite solid ladies with possibly hennaed hair and they wore floral dresses but of a dark overall tone.

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘You’re very kind, but I am from a different universe where another god has jurisdiction.’

One woman clearly carried the authority and she moved a step closer and asked sceptically, ‘Who is this god?’

‘Eena Feena Pareena,’ I replied.

‘And where is this Eena Meena…?’

‘Eeena Fareena Pareena,’ I said, correcting her yet adding a syllable to the name of the god, ‘is everywhere.’

The other woman seemed to overcome a certain timidity, and she stepped forward. ‘Where?’ she said.

‘Everywhere,’ I repeated. ‘Ah, there he is now…’ And I pointed above her head.

At this she give a start, looking up and back.

‘Now there,’ I said, pointing over her shoulder. She turned her head back in the direction of my pointing finger. She seemed surprisingly interested, and even intrigued.