One time, when me, Antman and Fleabag got sick of livin and workin in the city, we went out home to do some work in the shearin sheds. I do some rouseaboutin, Ant does some cookin and Flea does whatever he wants.
Me sister Lulla’s married to a shearin contractor called Rick and he always puts together a team of all blackfullas. We’re usually related and we have the best time. We work hard durin the day, then after we have a shower we sit round and have a coupla beers, then a feed and another coupla beers and then bed. It’s a good life out in the back country, nice and quiet.
Anyway, last time we went out, there was this fulla. Me and Ant aint never seen im before. He sat on his own, away from everyone else. He’d git his own tucker and go and eat it outside, he’d drink his beer on his own too.
I asked Lulla how come he did that. I thought he was one of them stuck up blackfullas, she reckoned no, he just liked bein on his own. She also told me he wasn’t a blackfulla. I was a bit surprised cos he sure looked like one from a distance.
Then Cousin Yogi puts his two bob’s worth in. ‘He’s that colour cos he don’t wash. He aint had a tub in years. Just as well he sits on his own. Ya wouldn’t wanna git too close too im. One time he was asleep out over near the paddock and I swear to gawd the dogs was rollin in im. The crows and eagles were circlin round im too.’
Lulla reckons Yogi was right about the washin bit, but he was goin too far with the bit about the dogs and the birds.
Rick reckoned Yogi was speakin the truth cos he seen it himself. He said he was a really good presser tho, and as long as he did his job, he could always git work with his team.
All that week we never saw that fulla go near a tap. He slept in a hut on his own and at night he would walk out to the long drop toilet and sit there for hours playin Bob Dylan on the mouth organ. He wasn’t bad either and cos it was so quiet in the wide open saltbush country, the music would float over to where the rest of us fullas were and sometimes we’d sing along.
His name’s Trevor Mitchell, but we call him ‘the Grub’. No one knows where he came from, if he has a wife, family or anything. He just drifted into town one day in his beat up old Torana lookin for work pressin.
Rick was desperate and give him a start. Some of the fullas used to complain bout the smell, but funny thing is, after a while ya git used to it. Besides, most of the time he don’t come close enough to a body for ya to notice. And like Rick says, he’s real good at his job. A coupla other contractors have tried to pinch him, but he’s loyal to Rick. Been with him for ages.
So we did the week and cut out from the shed on the Friday and was headin into town to cash our cheques and git pissed. Yogi was travellin with us and cos he lost a fight with Fleabag for the front seat, was sittin in the back suckin on a long neck, sulkin and carryin on about spoilt, fuckin city dogs and not letting up bout how me and Antman encourage Flea to be an arsehole. Ant give Flea a biscuit and a pat and said he don’t need no encouraging; he can be an arsehole all on his own. That really give Yogi the shits.
Anyway, me and Ant starts talkin bout how dirty the Grub is.
I said I couldn’t believe anyone could live their life without havin a wash. I mean there aint nothin better after a hard day’s workin, than standin under a shower and lettin it wash all the sweat and grime away.
Then Antman reckons he’d have to be lousy. Reckons he’d be crawlin with lice.
Yogi pipes up from the back. ‘No way, Ant. Those lice would perish for sure.’
‘Whadda ya mean they’d perish?’
‘No fuckin water.’