Chantel and me

Do you know those strange ‘my life as a percentage’ statistics?  The ones which tell you that on your death bed you will have spent a third of your life asleep and another frightening percentage watching bad TV? Of course for women there will be one unique entry, the amount of time spent in toilet queues just waiting to pee.

When my final tally comes in it will include a hefty transport percentage, the amount of time I’ve spent commuting north. Then south. Then north again. I don’t want to know how much bitumen on the F3 I’ve worn out, or how many hours I’ve stared blankly watching (yet again) the Hawkesbury River and other scenic attractions on the Sydney-Newcastle-Hunter train line.

The only thing which makes this regular long commute bearable (other than my delight at seeing the Country Mouse waiting at Broadmeadow station at the end of the journey) is that public transport remains, as ever, a source of unique entertainment. Ever wondered where Chris Lilley dreamed up those Angry Boys, Summer Heights High, We Can Be Heroes characters? He travelled by train; a lot. You couldn’t invent the people you encounter, regularly, on public transport. Right now as I am writing this two young (very young) gay men nearby are debating how many men you can sleep with before you become ‘a male slut’ and how having sex with anyone 30 years or older would be like ‘screwing a dead man’.

But my favourite fellow traveller of all time was Chantel the junkie, who enlivened my trip north one day with her unmitigated chutzpah and made me wish I was a documentary filmmaker so I could have captured her on celluloid. Chantel was accompanied for part of her journey by a male companion whose name I never determined, but whose loud whine “SHAAAAN-TEELLL” announced her repeatedly to the rest of the carriage.

Chantel was a vision in pink. From her stretched sweatshirt to her lurid Little Mermaid Disney backpack and her shabby faded suitcase, her clothes were a fascinating amalgam of odd items, but all solidly colour co-ordinated in every fathomable (and unfathomable) shade of pink. My favourite item was her pink rubber thongs which, given that it was a cold day, she had sensibly paired with matching thick woollen socks. 

She first caught my attention when she and her companion began a too loud conversation about their latest soon-to-start rehab stint at Jarrah House in Little Bay. As Chantel said to her fella it was “her last chance” it was rehab or “I’m goin’ inside this time”. Chantel looked stressed; nervously pacing the train’s corridor she explained to her companion (and because of the conversation’s volume the rest of the carriage) that she had to get to Jarrah House before 5.00pm, or she would miss admittance. It was mid-morning and I could see Chantel had a problem - she was heading north instead of south.

After trying unsuccessfully to make a call on her mobile (pink, naturally) and realising she was out of credit she cast her expert eye around for a likely sympathiser, settling on a nervous-looking Asian businessman. She pleaded. She needed to ring her mother, just make one quick call – PUH-LEESE could he lend her his phone? How could he say no? Handing it over Chantel settled down to make her call. Well actually… calls.

When her mother wasn’t home she rang her grandmother and then a series of men all whom she addressed all by their first name and the generic surname ‘Mate’ (“Warren.... mate”, “Barry...mate”) urging them, unsuccessfully, to meet her at Woy Woy station. Yes, she assured them she did have money. After she had racked up about six or more calls the phone owner apologetically asked for his phone back, explaining that he was so sorry to ask but he had to get off at the next station.  

Chantel was affronted, “but I have to ring me kids” she explained as she launched into another series of phone calls, none of which seemed to be to children. After finally lining up someone  to meet her at the Central Coast station – “Dave....mate” I think it was – she most reluctantly returned the phone.

A thirsty Chantel then spied a woman nearby with a bottle of Coke. “Luuuuuvvvv could I just have a little sip?” she begged. The Coke’s owner reluctantly handed it over and Chantel almost emptied the bottle, apologising “sorry luuuvvv...”. She was really dry she explained, pointing to her throat.

Soon she was on the move again, pacing the aisle. Her eyes settled on my just opened snack pack and I realised that scrawny Chantel looked really hungry and that we were about to have our own one-on-one moment. I knew that if her powers of persuasion were directed at me I too would succumb to her saucer-sized eyes and sad pleas.

Before I had the option, or not, of sharing morning tea with Chantel the Woy Woy station sign appeared and she gave a squeal. Scooping up her luggage she was suddenly gone, a rose-coloured blur of movement on an otherwise colourless train trip. Dear Chantel, I hope you made it to rehab - bless you and good luck.