Pedaling through thick dust is tiring, so I rested under heavy shade of a peppercorn tree. How could traffic be so sparse, yet the dust be thick enough for the rabbits to burrow in?
The sedan came at walking pace from the direction of town, ten miles distant across the wheat land.
This is what I saw:
The lone driver, a thin man, thick hair white as snow, turned his head this way and that, his mouth opening and closing with intense, unceasing agitation.
He lifted his body from the seat and turned his torso as if to see the rear floor. Agitated further, he braked to a stop and sat staring ahead a while then, again, he contorted his body as if to see the rear floor. He got out of the vehicle, scratched his white mane and, leaning against the vehicle, lit a cigarette and puffed on it as he stared impatiently across the plain. He opened the rear door and gazed in for a few seconds before slamming that door most energetically.
He stomped to the rear of the car and grabbed and twisted the trunk handle, but it held fast. After a second or two’s hesitation he returned to the driver side door, reached in, switched off the idling motor, and grabbed the keys from the ignition. Not for a second did he quit chattering angrily at the world.
Back at the rear, he juggled the keyset and selected one, and plunged it into the lock and opened the trunk wide. After staring into the interior for several seconds, he crashed the trunk shut and removed the key. Charging back to the driver seat, he restarted the motor, executed several backs and fills, the roadway being narrow; then the heavy, dusty old auto moved jerkily in the direction whence it came, the driver still madly chattering, his irritation undiminished.
That’s what I saw.
What could that guy have been saying/thinking?
This:
Look at this bloody dust. As if the road’s not lousy enough without that stupid Keith Rowan ploughing up more clouds of grit. I told him to work at night when the air’s damp. He’s shit-scared it’ll rain like buggery before he gets his crop in, but why be stupid about it? Still, he gets a good yield in the end: 18 bags to the acre last year ya know? Beats us.
Our lands better for sheep; that’s how we make a few bucks. Good wool and good lambs both. Keith’s got no idea how to raise sheep. He buys rams that are as useless as a work shirt without pockets. You’d think he’d learn. I try to help him; he’s just not a natural. He comes to help us when we shear; picks up the fleeces and skirts them. He’s ok at that. Her brother comes to help Keith at his place with his crutching and marking, some years when he’s off; a teacher in the city. They work well together, but he doesn’t know much either. Still, two heads are better than one, even if they are only sheep’s heads.
Bloody Hell! Jean’s not in the car at all.
You haven’t said a word since we headed home, Jean? Noisy road doesn’t help much. I wish you would sit up front; easier to hear. You’ve ridden in the back since Winsome was born. Damn-it-all, she’s 34 now. And don’t keep blaming me. I have not left one greasy machinery part on the front seat in all that time.
I might have upset Jean with something I said. Or she coulda had one of her little turns. Betta check; smoko anyway —— Now there’s another idiot raising a bloody great dust – too far away to tell who it is. Well, let’s see if she’s ok, can’t stay here all night; We gotta get home so I can milk Gwennie. Gwennie best house cow we’ve had in 40 years—- Bloody Hell! Jean’s not in the car at all. What happened?
Did she fall out or something? Or did I ferget to pick her up at the grocery? No way! The groceries better be in the trunk, or I’m in deep shit! Looks bad. What! Can’t open it. The trunk shouldn’t still be locked once we head home. Now I gotta get the trunk key outa the ignition. —— Shit! Which one is it, again? There we are—- Bloody dust gets in everything—- Holy shit!
No groceries in the trunk! — That’s it then. I damn well forgot to pick her up!
She’ll be muttering her head off outside the supermarket. Frozen stuff’ll melt; I’ll never hear the end of it. And if any of her scrawny mates come by, she’ll tell ‘em the whole story, unload on me she will. To hell with it! She’ll say I’m somewhere between Genghis Kahn and the devil himself or whatever. Everyone’ll know. And to think I got up early for this mess!
And it’s gunna be a bastard putting up with the shit I’ll get from the smart arses at the farming association meeting. I wouldn’t go, except I’m president. —- Can I think up an excuse to tell her? —- Waste of time! Impossible! She’ll yell at me. She’ll ask how many times I’ve gotten away with lying to her in 40 years. She’ll accuse me of having a coupla beers at the The Farmers Arms and leaving her waiting in the heat. So what! Betta fly now though; can’t let it get any worse, as if that’s possible — damn these deep table drains— hard to turn round —waste of time.
Now I’m the one raise’n the dust. Bugger it!
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