THE SOUTH
Esperance: Hostel: The Road Maintenance Man
that wind from the southern ocean, cold:
it blew, it blew, the Norfolk pines whined:
and he came in late, whoever he was, blunt
footsteps down the passage and a key that
scratched and the slam of the door and boots
shrugged off and they dropped, one, two, and
a sturdy voice through the plasterboard wall
like a voice, that voice, that tells to the heart
and will not be quiet: was he talking himself
through? or reading aloud? reciting plans, or
prayers? Damian put a saucer ear to the wall:
‘sounds like he’s pissed’, he announced:
and then the bunk bed creaking, creaking:
a woman with him? Damian’s ear again:
‘nah, he’s just humpin’ the mattress, goin’
like the clappers,’ but nobody laughed
because to be driven is what works a man:
and we fell into sleep, the four of us and
the man next door, but not the wind that
blew cold all night smelling of kelp and
damp, and not the bent-back Norfolk pines
that whined as the wind rushed, it rushed:
and the man getting up early and moving
about and clearing his throat as if he might
speak again but no, he kept his mouth, and
the lock clapped, and his boots stamped,
and a ute fired, it crunched on the gravel:
‘he’s in road maintenance,’ the manager said,
‘leaves early, comes in late: not much of a
life for a man, is it? but he earns his wage
and he pays his way, so he’s doin’ all right,’
and she waited for us to nod knowingly:
‘reckon he needs a woman to see to him,
though: a man has his needs, don’t he: but
perhaps he ain’t the type: some men aren’t,
of course: not everyone finds women easy,’
and she waited again, and we nodded again:
‘plenty of women lookin’ for a man, and
he’s got a tongue in his mouth if he wants
it, but he never opens his bleedin’ mouth:
what does the poor man do with himself?’
‘perhaps he likes to drink,’ Damian said:
‘drink! him!’ she exclaimed, ‘nah, he’s too
strong for that: a man only drinks ’cos he’s
driven to drink,’ and she snorted into a tissue:
‘bloody wind gives me the sneezes, it does:’
the wind blew that day, blew hard all day:
it blew the water scruffy, green and white, so
that it smacked and cuffed, spat, as we fought
to the end of the jetty and back in the hope of
a man who might sell us a still wet bright fish
but there was nothing doing, nothing at all,
and so we gobbled fish and chips in a place
behind Dempster Street and took the road
to the Rotary Lookout on Wireless Hill and
to Twilight Beach and to Observatory Point
and to Ten Mile Lagoon and the wind farm:
the turbine blades were going like the clappers