Is there ever a justification for telling a bloke he’s “not a man”?
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I wouldn’t have thought so, but on Thursday I did just that and I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Picture the scene. It’s about six pm and rush hour is in even more of a rush than normal, everyone having seen the weather forecast and racing to get home before the skies open. Mikey and I are walking up Liverpool Street, both of us in roaring good moods and, I’ll admit it, having celebrated with a beer or four. Liverpool Street, for those of you outside Sydney, is a main thoroughfare which cuts east to west across the southern end of the city-centre, intersecting with each of the main north-south roads as it does so. It’s cloggy at the best of times, but at the moment the council is digging up one of its three lanes; at six pm on a Thursday night it’s bumper to bumper.
My news pales in comparison to his but I’m pretty excited all the same.
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Mikey and I have been down at Darling Harbour, mingling with the office crowds as we share our respective news. Mine pales in comparison to his, I accept that, but I’m pretty excited all the same. He does a great job of pretending he’s as excited for me as he is for himself. A few beers in, I let myself believe him. His news, after two and a half years of trying, Michelle is pregnant.
“Sort of” says Mikey.
“Sort of pregnant?”
“Well, it’s less than twelve weeks and you’re not supposed to tell anyone before then. Anything can happen apparently.”
He gives me the famous Michael Chan grin, and I can see he has no concept of what “anything” might mean. But I’m not in a mood to dampen his enthusiasm, and we drink to the next generation of Chan. My news is that Scholastic have pre-ordered 6,500 copies of my kids’ book.
“Bloody hell, mate” says Mikey, visibly shocked. “That’s almost like being a proper writer.”
I have to agree and we drink to that too.
◊♦◊
Three beers later we’re weaving up Liverpool Street, dodging the office-workers who are scurrying in all directions, when Mikey stops suddenly and tells me to look. He’s pointing at a white VW Golf with a very young female driver and three male passengers. The Golf has gone through a set of traffic lights and got halfway across the intersection with Pitt Street (one of the busiest roads in the city) before the driver has realised the traffic ahead of her means she can’t get any further. Then the lights have changed, meaning not only does she now have rush-hour crowds crossing Liverpool Street in front of and behind her, she also has one lane of Pitt Street angry that they can’t get past.
She’s biting her bottom lip and not far from tears; this one wasn’t on the test.
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The Golf has got red P plates, which means it’s less than twelve months since the driver passed her test. Drivers in Australia graduate from red P plates to green ones, which – depending on which State or Territory they are in – have to be worn for up to three years. This system was introduced so the rest of us can roll our eyes, sigh and say ‘Tch, P plater’ every time a new driver does anything less than perfect. It works very well and on Thursday night I’m about to sigh the same when, as we watch, the three male passengers get out of the Golf. They’re older than the driver and, both my guess and Mikey’s, one of them looks too much like her not to be her big brother. Do you remember being that age, when you’ve just learned to drive and you’re happy to give anyone, even your siblings, a lift anywhere?
The three boys, clearly surprising the driver by exiting the car, give her sarcastic waves and go to the nearest street corner to stand back and watch the show. By this time, the first few cars not moving north on Pitt Street are leaning on their horns. It’s a lamplit, reflective time of evening but we can easily see the helpless look on the face of the young woman in the Golf. What is she supposed to do? Roll gently forward or backward through the heavy crowds crossing Liverpool; or stay where she is blocking an increasingly irate row of traffic on Pitt? She’s biting her bottom lip and not far from tears; this one wasn’t on the test. Mikey makes a grab for my arm when he sees me move into the street, but he’s too late.
“Ged!” he shouts after me. “Why do you always have to get involved?”
◊♦◊
I ignore him, skirt the bumper of the Golf, then stand between it and the front of the blaring row of traffic on Pitt Street. There I make a placatory gesture to the first driver. I can’t see him clearly through the angle of his Range Rover’s windscreen, but he does stop beeping his horn (maybe to give the finger, who knows?). Then – eek – I step to the left. There I hold up a hand and stop the one lane of Pitt which is moving. With my other hand I gesture for the Range Rover to come through, in front of the car I’ve stopped and around the back of the Golf. This takes quite a bit of gesturing but it works in the end, the driver of the Rover not smiling at all as he passes.
Then I swap, letting one car from the other lane go north, before stopping the next one and gesturing the car that was behind the Ranger Rover to go. Back and forth, this is fun, and I turn to smile at Mikey. I don’t see him at first and then I realise he’s at the window of the Golf. He’s chatting to its young driver and I just know he’s being sweet and giving her the Michael Chan grin. I turn back to my traffic police duties – somebody pass me a uniform – and then hear a shout from Mikey. The lights on Pitt have turned amber.
◊♦◊
“Poor thing, she was really upset” he says Mikey we’re back on the pavement, watching the Pitt lights turn red, the Liverpool lights turn green and the Golf drive away.
But I’m not finished. I cross Pitt Street and walk up to the three young guys who got out of the Golf.
“Thanks man” says the one who looks like the young woman in the Golf.
Do you think you’re a man? All of you, do you think you’re men?
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“Man?” I say, holding up an accusatory finger. “Do you think you’re a man? All of you? Do you think you’re men?”
“Er..” Two of them shrug and the third looks at me like I’m speaking Greek.
“Because you’re not. You’re just pathetic little boys and you’ve all got some growing up to do.”
And I stride off up Liverpool Street, feeling self-righteous and manly.
“Jesus” says Mikey when he catches up with me. “That was without doubt the campest thing I’ve ever seen. Talking to those boys, you had hands like Whitney Houston.”
Camp but manly, beat that.
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Photo Credit: Getty Images
Good Man! Yes, there are boys out there masquerading in adult male bodies. They need to be schooled. Well done.
Oh nice story! Men and women – let’s just say adults, well the ones who behave like adults do show and tell proudly how to treat others right. So bravo for being a good man!