– I do lizards! says the girl.

These two exchange contact details. Then another conversation:

– You know I’ll transfer you, Sam assures Pippa.

For the menthol cigarette that is. With his floor-length skirt, singlet and bicep cockatoo tattoo. This long board surfer and student Sam despises that he forgot cigarettes because where’d the freedom go? We gossip on surfing and discuss sour enemies within our sight-length radius. I point to his arm. He shoulders his chin, looking at the tattoo. We decode black cockatoos.

– I drew it! It’s my sisterhood. You see? says Sam.
With silver hoops and capable arms, I nod. Then of his Italian mother:

– She was very solemn today, you know? No hugs. Because I’m a boy. He looks away. I guess I smirk, he approves by laughing.

– My parents’ friends used to own this place. It used to be a bikie’s bar.

The band who were also lingering in the courtyard shuffle back inside, the DJ set is mellowed, it had been playing Eden by Talk Talk, Mum Does The Washing by Joshua Idehen and Woman by Angel Olsen, the band begins cheerily once more. There is a dog, the hound flâneur, that nearly tangles itself in live audio cables. Billy the Witch Doctor wafts seething sonics from his saxophone, takes a gulp of breath, reaches down, pats the passing dog. That dog taps through shadows, human limbs, the underground: the space under the purple pool table, behind the bar, under tables of steak and petite pickles skewered into white crustless bread from Chez Crix. The dog finds some wiggle room and arrives at the water bowl. The dog discovers a salted floor chip, relocates its owner, who is its owner? Not so many people know. But I do! She may be the Gossip Girl of the Wednesday jazz bit.

You’ve got Billy. Dynamic. Tantalising. Present. His eyes are strung from the same vein as Mona Lisa, always looking at you, yet never once looked at you. Everyone thinks this. You’ve got Arthur who strums with controlled mania. He signals for friends (such as Pat Powell, Ruby Jackson, Angelina Pona, Yannick Koffi and Arlo Sim) and relatives (Gray Washington and George Washingmachine) to perform with voice or instrument. You’ve got Nick. His double bass omnipresent, indoors, outdoors, always audible in the atmosphere. You’ve got Jerry who strums with energy, eyes closed, eyes open, friends pat his shoulder on their way past, the vital underbelly.

The band operates spontaneously, in a well-oiled way, experimentally. Arthur may shift into Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin then right back into gear. Sitting there at jazz, a kid will stroll in with a black beret pinned with a thin hand-tied bow, a man wears a propellor cap, an artist with stone-toned overalls and white t-shirt, a girl in a sheer manga vest, women in edgy gowns will float into Chez Crix. Redundant holes in the roof are stuffed with protruding stuffed animals, rainbow fairy lights, a missing girl poster, paraphernalia, behaviour suggestion signs. Someone will buy you some house wine or some soda water, it could have been mulled wine in winter, margherita slush on insufferably hot days, incense is lit, you will mooch around, meet people you will soon expect to see weekly, you may have a chat with the band, contribute to the bathroom graffiti walls, watch some free-balling jazz performers, a digicam will be recording, the dog with chase his tail, Queer is in your back pocket, you read it in a Surry Hills walking lane in between jazz sets, bats in the sky will perform their evening migration from Centennial Park.

The boys in the band will perform their final tune, an anthem, the pub regulars will sing and whisper, everybody is safe and happier than when they walked in. You nod yourself out, thanking the front security and make your way home. We will see you next week!