I’m now traffic controlling.
When I’m not sleeping, I’m directing traffic.
I can’t deny it, it’s a wonderful gig.
Like with anything, get your tickets and stay focused.
That dream job is just around the corner.
‘Sending a single vehicle.
(Snore sounds, he is roused by the static over the walkie talkie)
‘Copy, single vehicle received.' says Toni, on the other end.
I have about two minutes and thirty seconds for a vehicle to arrive.
Toni gets the confirmation.
‘Received single vehicle.’
(Snoring sounds continue)
As I said, I love my job.
My team leader is rock and roll to the core.
As soon as I said he was the closest thing to David Grohl, the lead singer of Foo Fighters, I had won him over unconditionally.
Also Jacob, who is head of road works at Running Creek, really likes me.
‘I didn't finish reading that,’ I said, as I pulled up to inquire about a blinking light on my dashboard.
He likes me too.
If we both go to Hell, we know what we’ll be doing, I say, wink wink, nudge nudge.
It was making conversation about his tattoo written in small script on his throat. You had to put on your reading glasses to read it.
That was PR 101 and Jacob said he’d see me on Monday. A small beefy guy, he needed interesting crew on this lonely stretch of road that wended around verdant hills and Running Creek.
Some called it God’s territory. That term had lost its appeal once I met Mr. Ipswich the Bookie, who carried 20 000 in cash, rolled up in bundles of fifty.
I called it Cow Dung Country, a Glass and a Half.
That nearby mountain just dragged in the clouds, which lingered on the Glass House Mountain. Some weird geography going on, and matched by even weirder atmosphere. It’s only at night, when the vampire bats are out, flying in silhouette against the full moon, that you realize some really eerie shit is going on.
A cow’s moo doesn’t sound the same as it does during the day.
And the cockatoos. They are miniature pterodactyls who let out their guttural screams of ‘Get the fuck away from tree.’
They have almost human like heads and do these amazing acrobatics in the sky, protecting their sky homes against the crows and magpies.
Mornings are really raucous like that.
And I’m witnessing all this in my car where I direct traffic.
‘Put your bat down,’ says my team leader. Which I do.
‘And get in the car and cool down.’ It’s sweltering outside.
Some of the road crew even got headaches last night, said Rowen, who trained me up over four months ago. We were blood brothers after I rolled up my sleeves and helped the council crew,
‘If you can do it, then I can,’ I said to him. My pants were falling down, no belt and all Rowen could see was my pink Speedos as I threw in a large log in the mulcher, that sent chips and wood dust all over the fucking place.
Such friendships are usually forged in these kind of situations.
Our job is to direct traffic, not mulch fire wood.
That I chipped in and helped out.
That meant the world to Rowen.
Who obviously wants me on his gig.
Sure thing.
This is rock and roll to the core.
And to think, it’s Road Kill to a fucking tee.
Currently Rowen is filming his signage. He’s on the war path.
‘Those snowflakes are on our case.’
He says no having a yellow flashing light on the vehicle and stopping at a blind bend, is very much a breach of protocol, ‘and I’ve recorded and noted it.’
Nothing gets passed Rowan, who like me, in his fifties, has long strawy grayish hair and is always wearing a four day growth.
He might be aging, but boy, he doesn’t need to dye his hair to look hip and cool.
We are the New Fifties. And watch out, we are here to stay… and direct traffic. So if you don’t stop before the sign, we’ll ridicule you over the two way.
