I Ain’t Saying I’m a Gold Digger, I’m Just Saying I’m a Cotton Picker

Word had got ‘round Emerald that a dab hand machine operator was covering hectares faster than a rabbit on a speedboat.  Church goers stared at him in awe as if he was the Virgin Mary lactating by the altar. Cattle stood to attention as he parted the snowy blanket like Moses did the Arctic. He would volunteer at the local nursing home, spinning yarns to yearning ears over morning tea as his legend grew, only to be forgotten, then replayed, and so forth. But people can be fickle as well as forgetful and recognising that his small town celebrity status probably wouldn’t last forever, he turned his back on the fame to focus on the cotton.

I’ve often said that there’s nothing purer than post-harvest ploughing. That first turn of the soil after a long barren spell, revitalising the very earth we tread on. I get hard just thinking about it. Too much? Well imagine you were buried alive for months on end and nobody knew, the dirt pressing against your chest as if you were a packet of crisps at the bottom of a shopping bag full of canned tomatoes (Don’t ask me what I’m cooking). Now picture the utter relief that same pack of Tayto must feel when a fat kid tasked with putting away the groceries grasps the crisps first. I was now that fat kid. Insects blinded by the beaming light of the Queensland sun were given a second chance. Surfacing worms wriggled free gasping for air. Gracious wombats gathered ‘round the tractor as the kookaburra serenaded their rescued families. And there I was, the giver of life, perched high in my John Deere, proud as punch. If only the hawks hadn’t noticed. Like a gang of women at a tin of biscuits, my new friends were torn asunder. Damn you cruel world, damn you straight to hell!

You see, at this point, all the cotton had been harvested. Four million dollars’ worth of raw, unadulterated, fluffy goodness, hoovered up the snout of the picker and baled out the other side. Like Charlie Sheen if he had the shits I suppose. Anyway, I was busy prepping the paddocks for next years’ season. Long days spent traversing rolling fields as wedge tailed eagles taught their young to fly over my head (I’m sure they could fly over other things too). It was peaceful, if not coma inducing, and apart from the odd breakdown to interrupt the monotony, there wasn’t much to write home about. That was, until one evening, I heard murmurs over my old transistor radio. Between the crackles of a cooked connection the words latch, trailer and pivot two tickled my fancy just enough to prise me from my precious field in order to investigate.

It’s the screams that still haunt me the most. Desperate drawn-out screeches of terror echoed ‘round the pivot. And there they lay, bodies strewn across the dusty road, legs contorted as if put together by a toddler who found them in a kinder surprise. Family members looked on helpless, mournful eyes blatantly casting guilt my way. Don’t be staring at me like that ya hefty pricks. I was a machine operator, and a damn good one at that. If it was my job to secure the latch on the trailer, it would’ve been done with the utmost care. But it was an outside job, and they’d shat the bed. Seventeen cattle, a year old if they were a day, thrown out the back of the truck at devastating speed. A proposed road trip to pastures new may as well have been a sky diving expedition without a parachute. Fetch the rifle Johnny. Play us another one farmer Mike. I’d need a machine gun to get through this amount of meat. And I couldn’t exactly take the Steinbeck approach either. Turn ‘round sweet cow and remember our happy place, luscious grasslands filled with rabbits and ketchup and BANG. Meanwhile his mates are watching on in horror thinking, this chap’s mad as a brush. And who was I kidding anyway? I’m no killer. I unintentionally murdered hundreds of ladybirds in a jar once, and sure my kill death ratio in Call of Duty earned me the nickname ‘The Ace’, but murder a herd of cattle? I feel guilty carving a Sunday roast. I’ll leave this one to you Mike, but don’t worry, I’ll plough those fields ‘til the cows come home.

Back at the ranch it was nothing but clean country living. On the upper deck I acted as Margy’s personal chef and she my surrogate mother. She had an acid tongue and an open mind which I greatly admired and without her I probably wouldn’t have survived. Below her, her brother Pat had proved a wily mentor. I’d packed in my role as his drinking partner for a gym membership, much to his disapproval, but no matter how many times he called me a poof, he always gave me a bottle of frozen rain water to soften the blow. In fairness, he was dead right. There I was prancing around with a set of heavy pom poms in the mirrored house of vanity when the man opposite me used to lift horses up by the bollocks for stepping out of line. One of those horses eventually got his revenge though, throwing Pat from a height at his Codenwarra ranch, shattering his pelvis, hip socket, collar bone and three ribs in the process.  An early but hard-earned retirement ensued for a man who’d once led a 33 day drove of 875 head of steers from Clermont to Roma, all 500 miles covered on horseback. But his adventures had shortened in distance considerably and I made it my business to drop him down to happy hour at the Emerald Hotel as often as I could. Not quite a cattle drove, but I was taking the horse to water and this lad didn’t need any encouragement. His local bar had just been allocated a stripper, or won one… I’m not sure how that works? It had caused quite the stir among the regulars but she was hidden behind a curtain out back, and at a vulgar twenty dollars a show, myself and Pat weren’t interested. He’d acquainted me with a few ladies with questionable testosterone levels as it was so I was quite happy to stick to a schooner of Gold and the role of getaway driver. And who needed her anyway? The real entertainment was out front atop the high stools as Pat and his band of merry men shared tales of yore. All I had to do was cop a bit of flak for being Irish and there I was with front row seats to the best show in town. Auyagoin?

 

 

The Ones that Get Away

The one. That elusive piece of the jigsaw to your life. The soulmate destined to complete you. The idea is magical. Some incredibly fortunate people meet their life partners in their local supermarket. ‘We both reached for the last pack of rice crackers and we just knew’. What were the chances? Seven billion people in the world but the local branch of Tesco came up with the goods. I’m not buying it. With 3.5 billion women in the world, I find myself falling in love every day.

‘Our eyes meet through a crowded train carriage. We both immediately look away in embarrassment. We glance up and catch each other staring again. My heart races. Was that a smirk? She’s definitely blushing. Although it’s so warm maybe she’s flushed? We’re packed in like sardines here after all. I notice she’s paying her book no attention. The hamsters in my head need to stop. Just approach her. What’s the worst that could happen? Man it’s hard when you’re sober. Who are you talking to? Damn. She’s getting off. What if that was my chance? She was perfect.  It feels kind of, oh wait, when did this chick get on? Our eyes meet and there’s an instant connection. But this is my stop.’

I hop off and coincidentally the Arctic Monkeys comes on shuffle. ‘Don’t act like it’s not happening, as if it’s impolite, to go and mention your name, instead you’ll just do the same as they all do and hope for the best…’ I become inspired. He goes on to remind me, ‘The only reason that you came, so what you scared for?’ Is it rejection? I wouldn’t be the first to taste that bitter pill but it doesn’t make it any easier. There’s a big difference between grinding up against some girl in a drunken state of misplaced confidence in a dark club and approaching a girl in broad daylight wearing your heart on your sleeve. It’s nerve racking but such courage would more often than not be rewarded. Instead, the only ‘meaningful’ daytime encounters between strangers of the opposite sex are saved for superficial tinder exchanges. Your heart will never skip a beat on a dating app. All the more reason to put yourself out there. And so I tried.

Flying solo and en route to Queenstown, I hit up tinder to avoid the possibility of drinking alone on my first night there. After a few bites I tried teeing up a couple of girls for an innocent drink. None were willing. I found myself in Cowboy’s bar straddling the high stool chatting to a couple from Brisbane when one of my tinder flames cruised right by. I’d often thought about what I’d do if I matched with someone in the same room. And so I approached her knowing she’d earlier given me the cold shoulder. ‘Where’s the party at tonight Yasmin?’ admittedly wasn’t my best opening tinder line. I debated confronting her, phone in hand, screaming defiantly, ‘do you recognise me’ but decided that was a bit much. She was cool, but like most things semi arranged, it lacked excitement. After one rather miserable pint of Speights, I left feeling dissatisfied and quite peckish. Remembering I couldn’t leave Queenstown without trying a famous patty from Fergburger, I followed my nose in search of some meat. And that’s when I saw her.

There were two tills but I was determined to be served by her. She was small and feisty, standing out amongst the hustle and bustle of the happening eatery. The queue meandered around the corner as hungry patrons barked their orders in her direction. It was loud and frantic as I approached her with a blinkered gaze. I ordered the calamari. What kind of a guy orders calamari in a restaurant famous for its beef? A different guy, that’s who. She asked me my name. Johnny, I said with a smile. She asks everyone their names you idiot. It’s placed on the order. Unperturbed, I ask for a beer while I wait and wouldn’t you know it, the one free stool in the place is perched beside her. I spark up a chat with the nearest burger flipper and before you know it, she’s in on the action. She compliments my accent and we find some common ground amongst the pandemonium of impatient customers craving her attention. It’s long past my order number and I enquire as to its whereabouts. She’d put it aside. She explains that she’s not used to calamari orders and sometimes they get overlooked. Of course they do. We continue chatting and I order another beer to compliment my tasteless rubbery squid. The tap squirts all over her as the keg has run dry. She laughs, adorably blaming me whilst handing over the half poured beer on the house. She couldn’t stay mad at me too long.

Eventually I’d reached a point where everything was flowing so easy that all that was left was to ask for a number. But she was so busy and I’d noticed her co-workers were giving me the eyes as if to say, ‘what sort of creep tries to chat up an innocent girl at work?’ But she was making a conscious effort to keep the conversation going and I could feel it. We’d pierced a hole through the wall of noise to ensure we heard one another. Should I hand her my phone and get the digits? The hamsters were returning. Shit.

Initially my sole focus was her but nerves brought my peripherals into play. The line seemed to be getting bigger outside and panic was starting to kick in.  There’s only so long a guy drinking alone at a burger joint can retain an air of charm. She’d told me what time her shift ended and that she had a late start the next day. But that clue had been dropped so long ago that I feared I’d missed the boat. If I was to get shut down here it was going to be at the mercy of one hundred onlookers. I stood up, hoping somehow she’d manage to vacate her till for a merciful second but the place was overrun. We were doomed. Reluctantly, against every fibre of my being, I shook her hand and I wouldn’t be surprised if she saw the heartbreak in my eyes as I uttered the words nice to meet you. Why didn’t I go for it? Or ask for a receipt and write my number down casually, no harm no foul. Hindsight you bastard. Let me try again.  It had all been so natural until crunch time and with the world watching, I choked so hard.  Would someone else have done anything different? Breaking down the post-game statistics with a good friend, he was impressed at just how far the conversation had advanced. I didn’t have much more to go to get the win, but as he put it, ‘how is a great love story ever going to become a reality again if nobody has the balls to make a move?’