A Night with the Burwood Literary Institute

It was five and sun-sizzle in Burwood when Frederick was deposited on the station step. Dressed in faded jeans and a mouse-brown leather jacket, with hair the same colour, he was tall and very pale. Graduated the previous summer from The Uni, he was a reporter for a fashionable multimedia magazine in Sydney’s eastern half called Step Back and host of a small salon in Darlinghurst. Buoyed by his monthly desire to test his spice tolerance, he accepted a story on the nightlife of Burwood Road. Taking out his earbuds, the sound beamed in.

“Give generously” sang the sign and its holder in the ashy gully between himself and the road. The Salvos lady wore a fisherman’s faded wool on her head and shoulders and a red apron around the rest. Beside her was another woman, hunched with a seal’s mane over a bulging forehead, purple eyes, and a small line of whitened teeth. She was enveloped in a dirty black puffer and as she begged stretched her fins, so it seemed she was lying directly on the fag ends.

“Any spare change?” Puffer asked, switching from Mandarin to English and sometimes awkward Korean.

Above came the rumble-tumble of trains, whines of whistles, the frantic blaring of approaching horns. From below the roars of old buses and the pop of a Porsche or broken-down Ford. A man in a green down jacket, young with spiky black hair, hurried through the soup of neon and sunset.

“Any spare change?”

“Don’t carry cash, sorry.” He seemed almost afraid.

“Can I have a light then?” retorted Puffer.

The man chucked her a Bic and ran.

Now Frederick had not visited Burwood before, though he had seen development ads. Burwood Road, spine of the suburb, primely located, halfway from gallant Sydney to Parramatta, and a short trip to the ascendant estates of the far west! 

Up the street he knew was Chinatown, wrapped in light and the romance of cooking smells, and from there down the hill to the park came restaurants, pubs, and cafes in their own variations on the best of first impressions. One place was all glam, its awning an echo of the New Year’s explosion, and another was Wooden or Bricked, and its interiors shielded from the street-eyes.

Desiring to mix with the true inhabitants of the place, he selected Glam at random and with a small smile to the grumpy bouncers, went inside.

Slightly pink stairs led up to a corridor-like bar, black, with tables and carpet the same. A chandelier covered the centre table, and at it The Group – there’s always one – hunched in their work-jackets over their beers, rolling themselves forward like so many cats about to cough a hairball. Jimmy, the chief, sat with his chin in his hand, a showy emerald ring tucked into the corner of his mouth, and a long beard with a trace of beer on it. As the regulars passed in and out he greeted and farewelled each of them with a joke, or a stony silence where his patience had run out.

Now Frederick was quite a hit at his local in Surry Hills, and right across the east, and he had walked in expecting a full harvest of quotes about the local area. The beers were unfamiliar, so he took a dark ale and as he sat down realised he was totally out of his depth. The men, plus two women with short haircuts and large coats who he, correctly, guessed were the wives of some of the guys, glanced at him sidelong, some of them then making eye contact again.

Eventually, Frederick worked up the courage to approach the chief, offering an empty comment on the beers.

The initial rebuff was expected.

“Well, it’s pretty standard, isn’t it mate?”

But Frederick persevered, knowing asking for advice will always get men talking. And he had the benefit of having started on their special interest.

“What’s the best pub here in Burwood? Or the oldest?”

This was not as privileged as Frederick imagined. The bartenders had documented the whole court life of Glam; the newcomers are brought in for interview, and with a laugh sit by or, dejected, scuttle down to another pokies palace. Now Jimmy had lived in Burwood longer than anyone else in Glam and probably Bricked or even Wooden too, and he instructed the young fellas in the importance and work of his position.

“That Wooden used to be a bank”

“ – nah mate was a whorehouse! – “

“Dickhead, I mean before, this is before when MY pop used to drone on about trams and Burwood Literary societies –

“What’s that?”

“Anyway, I was telling youse about this old bloke Paul – loved his trains he did, came down here one night - had a few y’know - had a chick hit on him, and he blurts out he likes trains - she’s being flirty, and he idiot starts doing the kids stuff – chugga choo choo - never seen a woman move so fast.”

He hurried back on the road again, staring very intently at the red and gold hot pot he had ostensibly been sent to Burwood for and not at all bothered by Puffer, purse jingling, entering the pokies parlour. 

The soup was perfectly spicy. Replacing a family with a spiderman son, an old man with no teeth, and a woman with a long red coat were ushered into the seats beside him. Despite his evident tiredness, they chose to benevolently reanimate him. The man was called James Kerensky – no relation – and wore a purple scarf above his minimal neck. The woman’s grey coat opened to a purple shirt; her name was Yong.

“Do you read, son?”

Poor Frederick was flustered, still half in Glam.

“Oh yes, a bit.”

“Like what?”

“Whitman?” 

“No! You must read Dickens, and after him an amazing book called Genji.”

“Absolutely not James, you, do you like going outside?

“Yeah sure! It’s –“

“Then you must begin with Du Fu, and after him Bai Juyi.”

Their awkward conversation continued, and with it his exhaustion. Eventually the suburb came up, and the old Institute.

“Colonial – there’s a scene in a Christina Stead novel exactly like it – men fussing and watching funny lights.”

“It is a shame though we don’t have a literary society here anymore son,” came back Kerensky, looking embarrassed.

He left the hot pot and walked to the park. By now the silvereye Moon flitted between the buildings.

The park was unkempt; long grass blew and joining it was the fluttering of ibis in the treetops. The shabby wings gleamed and with the wind disturbed the pond. Along the waterline Puffer limped, eyes glinting, a green shopping bag by her side.

“Spare change? It’s an auspicious night tonight.”

The lights never went out.