Life Cycle

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.

Drive Me Crazy

Drive Me Crazy
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday August 1, 2015

I am yet to meet a man who can resist the call of the open road. We are gunning towards Kalgoorlie on a week-long road trip. My husband is enthroned in the driver’s seat of our hired motor home. The kids are strapped in the back, squabbling over a box of Jatz crackers. I’ve eaten an entire packet of Twisties in the sixteen minutes between Meckering and Cunderdin.

The man in the van couldn’t be happier. He croons the backing vocals to Slip Slidin’ Away, then launches into a falsetto for the chorus:

You know the nearer your destination,

The more you’re slip slidin’ away.

A road train roars past, buffeting us sideways. I catch a glimpse of the Hulk Hogan behind the wheel and his sign on the dash: ‘Highway Warrior.’

“Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him,” I say.

“Yep, we’re a special breed,” replies my smooth-cheeked driver, caressing the plastic wheel of his white Jayco Conquest.

I stifle a snort.

“Driving into the sunset, rising with the dawn,” he intones.

He pauses theatrically, leaning forward to scan the sky before resuming his soliloquy:

“Man and machine at one with the wilderness.”

He eases smugly back into his seat as I shift uncomfortably in mine. I silently beg for an interruption to the treeless view. An unbroken ribbon of grey highway vanishes over the horizon. I study the mallee scrub for signs of life but it refuses to offer up even a crow. I’m momentarily absorbed by a dark lump on the roadside up ahead. Could it be a goanna? As we bear down on it, I realise it’s only a jagged strip of tyre.

“Road alligators,” mutters my wannabe truckie, hanging his arm out the driver’s side window.

I note the succession of coffee drips now staining the front of his favourite mauve polo. His left leg, rendered useless by cruise control, flops in the footwell. A camel-brown ugg boot ensures against holiday frostbite. He wears a roomy pair of elasticated trousers to keep himself nice.

A speck appears on the horizon: bigger than a car, smaller than a road train. It grows a high roof cab, a boxy body and becomes a shimmering mirage of white. It’s another Jayco Conquest! As we close the gap, my husband slides one hand to the top of the steering wheel and casually extends his index finger in a passing salute. The other driver reciprocates the gesture as he zooms past.

“The brotherhood of the road is alive and well,” my husband says with a satisfied sigh.

The next four hours of driving stretch eastwards with barely a bend in the road. The kids have settled down and are watching a movie with shared headphones. After Burracoppin, the salmon gums return, shading the highway with their green parachute canopies. By Bodallin, a flotilla of flat-bottomed clouds has gathered on the horizon.

Periodically, my wheatbelt tour-guide waves vaguely towards some feature of the landscape requiring my attention. “Sheep?” I offer, having no clue what he’s pointing at.

“Wheat silo,” he says flatly, now that I’ve missed it.

Minutes later, he signals towards the window again.

“Shed?” I attempt, as we whizz past a humpy of rusted tin.

“Windmill,” he corrects.

I give up and examine the gnat flapping frantically against the windscreen. I marvel at its staying power, four tiny wings a blur of desperation. And then I twig. It’s our slipstream that’s powering those wings. The gnat’s splattered innards have glued his body to the glass. He’s probably been dead since Walgoolin. I hope my flying friend never knew what hit him.

I while away the next ten kilometres classifying the streaks and smears dotting the windshield, but the impact of bug versus van has obliterated most victims. After identifying one wasp and a cicada, I lose interest. I practice my powers of perception instead, using each insect splodge as a Rorschach test. In the dark stain of a flattened mosquito, I see the delicate wings of a miniaturised butterfly. Who knew bug juice could give such artistic pleasure?

We pass through Southern Cross as the sun dips behind us. The last shafts of daylight drench the cab in golden light, giving my husband the tan he always wanted. The hairs in his left nostril are aglow. So are the bristles in his ear. The setting sun turns the thicket of hair on his forearm the colour of beer.

The monotony of the darkening highway is broken by another motor home barrelling towards us.

My husband delivers his customary one-finger salute but the van’s grey-haired occupants stare stonily ahead. They pass us without acknowledgment.

“They didn’t wave at you, honey,” I say, feeling miffed on my man’s behalf. “How dare they ignore the brotherhood of the road?”

“Foreigners,” he says matter-of-factly. “Any Twisties left?”