Life Cycle
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday August 8, 2015

A communal laundry in a caravan park is an odd place to befriend a stranger. He was parked at one end of a plastic pew, patiently waiting for his washing to finish. I was feeding dollar coins into the wall-mounted soap dispenser, impatiently waiting to be rewarded. I snuck a glance at my laundry companion, wondering if I should ask him why the soap was on strike.

He was reading the sports pages, his newspaper propped on the barrel of his belly. A thick neck sat on a stocky body. I guessed he was pushing 70. Tattoos rode up and down his forearms. The lower half of his face was obscured by a Grizzly Adams beard, the top half with an army-green beanie. He would’ve looked fearsome if not for his ugg-boots, one of which was graffitied with a red love heart and the word ‘Pa’ by a child’s Texta.

“Any idea how this thing works?” I said, throwing him a helpless smile.
“Tried giving it a thump?”
“No,” I said, taken aback by his gruff voice. I tried to read his expression but there wasn’t much on offer between beanie and beard. He folded his newspaper and stood up. I prayed his uggs weren’t stolen.

He sized up the soap dispenser and gave it a swift thwack with the palm of his hand. A small packet of washing powder thudded into the tray.
“Hope it’s worth it,” he said with a smirk, handing me the box. I looked down and read the label: “Det-N-Ate.”
“I’d like to Det-N-Ate this,” I replied, holding up my husband’s favourite lime-green polo shirt.
He nodded.

“Where’ve you come from then?” he asked, as I upended muddy clothes into one of the washers.
“Kalgoorlie. Via Perth. We got to Esperance last night. You?”
“Driven the rig from Queensland with the missus. We’re on our way home now. Gotta be back in time for our wedding anniversary. Forty years. Feels like eighty after six months in a caravan. But here’s what I know now: Anyone who has to turn a map upside down to say ‘turn left’ should never be allowed to navigate. She’s got us lost so many times I’ve had to invent a hearing impediment in my left ear. Taken me the whole trip to perfect that.”
I snicker. “So you’re one of those grey nomads I keep reading about!”
“She is. I’m a silver fox.”
He enjoys his own joke. My washer falls into a steady rhythm with his machine, swishing and whirring in tandem.

“How’ve you gone living in such a tight space?” I ask. “We’ve only had our van for three days and we’re tripping all over each other.”
“I try to stay outside. Got all the fruit I need – a telly rigged up, my radio, Foxtel box, solar panels.”
He gestures through the laundry’s open door. A red-dusted caravan is squatting on the concrete pad in Bay 8. Under its awning a mash of cables and equipment crowd a trestle table. A satellite dish capable of signalling Mars extends from the roof.
“You could block out the sun with that thing,” I say.
“Blocks out the missus. Haven’t missed a single footy game all season.”

He stands, flips the lid of his washer and deposits a mound of wet clothes on an ironing board. I spot the leg of some Collingwood pyjamas. Crowning the pile is a large pair of floral knickers, indecently exposed.
I read aloud the sign above the dryer as he dumps his washing into the barrel. Anyone climbing into this clothes dryer will be asked to leave the campsite immediately.
My laundro-mate chuckles. He plugs two dollars into the dryer and it roars to life. With his hands on his hips, he arches his back and groans: “Crook back’s giving me hell.”
“How’d you do it?”
“Had an argument with a chopper in Vietnam.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
“Landed heavy,” he says filling my silence.
Before I can ask, he continues: “I was a medic. Got called up at 20. I was doing Ag Science. The army shunted me into pathology. One minute I’m castrating lambs, the next I’m doing post mortems on soldiers. It was a big step up.”

My washing machine wheezes to a halt. “Time’s up for you,” he says regretfully as I gather an armful of smalls. “And I was just getting started.”
“Happy anniversary,” I say, holding up a damp ball of lime-green polo. “Hope I can say the same in thirty years.”
“Only so many heartbeats in a life,” he replies. “No point wasting ‘em on the wrong fella.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve already found Mr Right.”
He flaps open his newspaper, flumps himself back on the bench and gives me a parting wink.