It was a Monday. Having arranged to work from home for the day, I snuck in a nap after lunch and, as soon as I’d tucked in the clients for the night, I went straight to bed. Alas, this is not my usual routine. I was readying myself for a night shift, walking the streets, counting homeless people. I had volunteered for ‘Street Count’ – the City of Sydney’s annual count of the city’s homeless population.
I tried to sleep, but the neighbours had gone to bed early – and randy – and seemed intent on letting everyone know. I think my de facto detected the mood, but, with me having declared the boudoir off-limits, she distracted herself in the kitchen by noisily doing the dishes, baking a cake, and doing the dishes again.
I gave up on sleep, arose, inspected the cake, complimented and kissed my partner and, just before midnight, arrived at Town Hall. Inside, beneath coloured maps that divided the city into zones, I was introduced to my count partner, Jim. He looked tired.
“You look as bad as I feel,” I said.
“Haven’t slept,” said Jim. “Probably won’t either. Someone nicked my blankets.”
While Jim asked around after his stuff, I collected our map. It showed we’d been allocated Macquarie Street and George Street and everything in between.
“I know the area well,” said Jim on his return.
“Me too,” I said. “But you lead the way.”
We set off in our council-issued safety vests and, with clipboard in hand, the first thing Jim did was stride up to a taxi rank. He rapped on a passenger window and, as it came down, taxi engines turned over and the rank peeled away.
“Look at them go!” laughed Jim. “I was just cold-biting for a cigarette.”
Walking together up King Street, we dodged the night-time perils of garbage trucks hurling bins and security guards thrashing hatchbacks. Our eyes were ever peeled for bodies, and cigarette packets, on the ground.
It was uncharacteristically quiet around St James station and the courts, but I thought I spotted a minor jackpot near Parliament House and felt a strange, shameful, surge of excitement as I scurried across Macquarie Street to confirm their number.
“No!” called Jim. “That’s not our side of the street!”
I returned to Jim and we walked down Martin Place, doubling back along Phillip Street where, in the foyer of our very own Law Society, we found people sleeping.
“Five people,” noted Jim. “All men. Have radio.”
If day and night had collided, one wouldn’t be able to get a latte from Silks, or seek counsel on ethics, without stepping over bodies in sleeping bags. With the fluorescent lights and the concrete, it seemed such a tough place to sleep, or, perhaps, it was just somewhere safe. Jim confirmed it.
“You don’t want to be in the bushes or a dark alley by yourself.”
And I was grateful for my rough-looking companion when, in a dark alley near Circular Quay, a lit cigarette appeared from the shadows to give us a scare.
“What are you two doing?” a security guard puffed.
Jim muttered something and moved along. I hung back to speak with the guard.
“What was that about?” said Jim when I caught up.
“I scored you a cigarette,” I said, producing the prize.
“Cold-biting!”
“Yeah, I asked him for two.”
“Ha! That’s quality biting!” said Jim, admiring the score. “Oh … it’s a menthol.”
With spirits lifted, we were really getting through our territory now and found an extra few bodies tucked away here and there.
“We might even get to go home early,” I said.
“You might,” laughed Jim.
“Oh, sorry. Where will you stay tonight?”
“Hoping the council will sort me out,” he said. “Seeing as I’ve spent all night doing this.”
We finished with a tally of eight and, back at Town Hall, as we handed in our report, I felt I should make an offer.
“Do you need a lift anywhere?”
He declined. I felt weak. A handshake, and I went home. The cake was waiting on a window sill. I admired it again and joined my partner in bed.