A Wednesday night at the Woolpack in Redfern
Life was pretty chill in 2012.
27. A duck and a crutch.
The room quacks. An older lady bounces between conversations. She’s small and quick and knows everyone.
88. Two bee-autiful ladies.
“Hello Michael!” She says. “Jeez, you look smart! Have you been at the races?”
4. Number four, all by itself.
“G'day Cheryl! No, I’ve ah— been at a funeral. My sister.”
“Oh, that’s a blow, Michael. It was cancer, wasn’t it?”
51. A five and a one.
“No, no. Heart attack—”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear, Michael. Hold on a sec, I’ll be back.”
11. Legs eleven!
The room whistles. An old Rabbitohs supporter complains about referees. An Eels supporter agrees.
33. Turty tree and a turd.
A few try out Irish accents. One guy takes it too far, gets called a boofhead.
32. A three with a duck!
The room quacks. There’s a lady sitting at a high table, but using a stool to rest her beer and game-sheet on. I turn to ask for it.
7. Number seven, all by itself.
Oh, she’s in a wheelchair. She’s using the stool because she can’t reach the high-table.
33. Two little fleas.
She looks up, picks up her beer “All yours, darl.” I hesitate. She demonstrates the ease with which she can roll back and rest her drink on the windowsill.
13. A baker’s dozen.
She smiles. We both smile.
16. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.
The guy at the trestle table wants to know why we aren’t playing. We don’t know. He hands us sheets and markers, shows us the basics.
47. A four and a seven.
Our conversation stops and the evening becomes an earnest blur: numbers, humanity, Dabbin’ Win felt tips. I start planning my life around Tuesday evenings. Around making friends, quacking along, winning meat trays.
24. Two dozen.
Some old prick yells Bingo.
