The torso of a female manequin lies on the floor, leaning on a palmtree. It has no eyes, no hair, and the paint on her uncovered pyramid-shaped breasts is cracked. Surprisingly, the cracks reveal shiny pink stains under the exterior paint, like a secret bright beauty under the pale brown skin. Next to her, a wooden buddha lets nature disfigure him. Lichens grow all over his smiling face and rounded belly but nobody seems to care about it.
In this little interior terrace there are no troubles. Sunshine breaks its way among the palm tree leaves, conversation flows quietly, with reflexive pauses and laughs of satisfaction. Everything in Glebe seems to function the same way. While I am rejected again and again every time I apply for a job, I take my time to enjoy a brief lunch followed by a coffee and a cigarette and I feel like I don’t care, everything is going to be alright, I’m going to get a job eventually.
I’ve spent the whole morning wandering around the neighborhood, asking almost every bar, café or restaurant for something to do, without luck. The bright streets remind me of a mix between Camdem, in London, and some peripheral neighborhoods in Barcelona. Small houses with small courtyards, young folks cruising in shorts to the city, old folks using a walking stick to reach the closest convenience store.
I’ve reached this place attracted by a sign advertising old music books, scores and playing methods. It’s one of those second-hand book stores which I love. Time doesn’t count while I search for a hidden treasure among the shelves. I delight myself in reading opera scores and jazz history books and I cannot hide a condescending smile while eyeing the pop artist biographies.
But there is something in this café. Maybe it’s the smell. The fresh smell of a shadowy courtyard. Maybe it’s the colours. The thousands of colours of lame graffitis covering the walls. Maybe it’s the floor. Irregular and bumpy, every table dances when a coffee is put on it. Maybe it’s me.
Bob Dylan sings through the speakers, accompanied with trombones, agreeing completely with the general feeling and praying: “Everybody must get stoned!”. And he keeps playing his harmonica, without giving a shit about my job, about this bar, about Glebe or anything in the world. Everything is gonna be alright.
