Brad and Janet

Questioning the Equality between genders

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My name is Janet, but I hate being called Jan.  

I was born in the shade of nothing loftier than a scrubby scarp, edges of an ancient seabed; west coast of this great brown, dry continent, Australia. Mine a youth of ill-gotten hours hanging around a few Scarborough shops. Places I avoided being classified as a future Widgie or Bodgie girlfriend. From fringes, I watched interactions between these groups. I could tell you, who had cigarettes folded into their T shirt sleeve. Or identified who listened to certain jute box tunes or who was only present due to wafting aromas of hot chips. Most I knew about surfing was gleaned from peering through reflections coming off shimmering white sand, where a few brave guys were visible, sat on boards while they waited for ridable waves.  

Don’t usually pick up hitch hikers – too dangerous, even back in those days when I made regular trips to Port Augusta, before bypasses were built around Busselton. Despite risks I might enjoy some conversation to pass hours when any talking I encountered dotted pop music on my AM radio from 6PR or 6IX. Remember these were days prior to downloadable music, or even FM stations.  

One time I made an exception. Every rule needs one. Beside he looked clean cut, carried a heavy backpack and was walking. I refuse to stop when hitchhikers stand holding up a sign, like they expected your generosity. Poor hopeless creatures exuding a sense of entitlement, never works for me. What I’d like to do with those deadbeat types is drop a firecracker out the window. That’d get them moving. Do nothing and you get nothing from me; another rule. Always did prefer people who get places under their own steam, not stand by roadsides, all sad, oh boo-hoo help me. Despise those who waited, nose stuck, used to say – in books, now it’s some sort of electronic device.  

My hitchhiker looked surprised as he opened a car door on a female, even one who was getting a little past her use-by date by then. A woman travelling alone denoted a thin edge of a long-standing taboo; back then no one accredited transient women to professional activities. Nope, they’d shake their heads, she’s got to be unhappy, desperate or dangerous. Maybe a combination of all three.  

Look inside my car - not just a mode of transport, but also road-side kip location, office and filing cabinet. Always kept one of those little bags hung on cigarette lighter handle. Mere thought of rubbish tumbling around passenger cavities made me shiver.  

‘Hundreds of miles? You drive all that way alone?’ Random strangers asked in wonder or disapproval. Or maybe it’s envy?

Why shouldn’t I pick up someone who can stimulate me with something other than pipe widths and such?  

Those trips served dual purposes. I needed to check on mother, because she’d dug her heels in. Her pretty, if messy cottage overlooking Molloy Island worth an overnighter, usually long enough. Being such a long way from health services ultimately contributed to mum’s demise. Bunbury before you can get closest specialists, at least 150 miles. Emergencies could be dealt with in Busselton, still a few hours away, difficult for her. Mum had to rely on others to drive or she’d book community transport, when such services were available. My occasional visits, unreliable and too infrequent.  

‘What’s the point in being closer to you, Jan, there isn’t any grandkids to look after.’ She grumbled.

True I am an only child. But why did she expect me to rush out and procreate?  Fill my space up with kids, for what? Invest time and money, where’s a return on such investments of time and effort? Besides I never found anyone prepared to stick around to help raise offspring. Always more about quick fix sex. This job kept me moving, which meant I showed up every few weeks rather than permanently in one place and therefore granted hues of wife and mother to their children. More a case of, ‘so what motel are you at again?’

‘It’s fine for Julia Gillard to be childless, why isn’t it ok for me?’

‘Being Prime Minister is a much more important job than sales rep for plumbing supplies.’ Mums replied.

I’m sure the country would grind to a halt a lot quicker without plumbing equipment. Be in more shit than when parliamentarians tossed one PM over for another.  

Long ago I gave up responding to mum’s comments about my job choices. Be nice if she gave me even a tiny pat on the back now managed to get responsibility for entire South West region. Disappointing my own mother never acknowledged my corporate success.  

Only other time I remember picking up a hitch hiker I was headed up to Narembeen for a family reunion. My childhood may all about west coast beach-sides, but I am from a family tree rooted deep in wheat belt/prairie lands. I drove to this rare family get-together full of anticipation. Caroline organized a fantastic job getting obscure cousins out of pre-internet woodwork. Barely an empty bed or shearers shed accommodation to be secured right through Narembeen and Bruce Rock. While I shared this earlier drive with my, for want of a better word – freeloader, blabbering to explain reunion concepts to a fresh-faced German tourist picked up not far east of Mundaring, close to Perth’s (planet’s most isolated capital city) suburban fringes.

‘A get-together,’ my first explanation attempt. Then I tried, ‘a catch up with army friends like on Anzac Day.’ Guess they don’t have many such celebrations in Germany. Imagine Franz, Heinz or Gerhard getting together over a few cold beers and reminiscing about mates lost during war service. Maybe they do? Surely such gatherings happen in secret, without recognition of what those blokes have in common. I felt trapped inside a Faulty Towers scene “…Don’t mention the war, I did once, but I think I got away with it…”  

‘School reunions,’ my next tack. ‘Looking up your high school friends and having a party to celebrate achievements.’ Now I understand why such an example fell flat too. Because he lived school memories into extinction, overridden by global travels. Perhaps he shared my fears. Thoughts of crossing paths with many of my, shall we say acquaintances from school worse than a terrifying nightmare. Far from friends. Any interaction back in those torturous halls littered with debris of a legacy of being taller than most of my peers, plus buck teeth, being bookish and wearing glasses.  

I suppose now people organize Face Book reunions. Wait, those don’t happen in person. No, that’s only on-line. Don’t get me started on such stuff.  

Good job I let Mr. German tourist out further along Great Eastern Highway. He would never cope with being confronted by my tribe of look-alike cousins. Deep mirror-images, to confuse kids who tried to attract attention from incorrect mums. Even I received more than one tap on the knee! If this is depth of paternal loyalty my decision to remain childless looked good. My extended family may share genetic material, but what did we really have in common?    

His name, this latest hitchhiker was Brad. Mine Janet, Brad - Janet, shades of Rocky Horror Show. Complete with his facial features of short dark hair and a sprinkle of freckles.  

Small talk headed into domains of – where you from? Well we’d already established he’s headed for Margaret River. Wasn’t out of my way as I preferred Caves Road anyway. Driving along that stretch of bitumen always felt like I’d been somewhere mythical; deep dark woods, spirits of Dreaming mingling right beside highways.

Brad originated from Narrabeen, rather ironic. Most of my dad’s family pegged out their home paddock around Narembeen! Little wonder mum brought her cottage to relieve pressures to force her to move out into wheat belt zones where those heat-mirages quivered over flat, empty fields. No, she insisted if anyone wanted to visit, she offered a beach holiday. Besides you’d expect a touristy type to be heading down into South West regions more than my other experience. Where was my German pal going? Who knows? Pop used to say my family’s farm was called Caring, because when you’re past there you were past caring.

Young Brad told me too many locals kept perfect right handers down here, at M.R, he called it, to themselves for way too long. This refreshed since entirety of any non-work conversation prior included, ‘you want fries with that?’ or a ‘Fuel on pump five.’ Standard reply, often without making eye contact, ‘want a receipt?’  

With Brad in my passenger seat, I am – please, please, indulge me, talk to me – mode.  

Said where he grew up, universes cycled around surf at Byron, Angourie, The Pass and even Kirra. So he thought why not get to a place like another country, sun sets over water. But where you didn’t have to worry, well not too much, about a different language, changing money, long haul… Oh well yes, a long-haul flight, but at least no visas were needed.  

Pointed out a surfboard lack. Yes, Brad agreed, looked weird. But he was here to look. Saying on other trips to many ‘special’ breaks, waves were dead flat. Too hard to tote a cumbersome board all that way. Someone would lend him a board, or he’d hire one. Besides surf boards made it difficult to travel, to get lifts, airlines made you pay extra, etc. And people operated with a set of, not always complimentary, expectations about surfers. Agreed with him there; not just surfers, my lad.  See we forged connections. A woman sales rep, as she criss-crossed countryside, who dropped into small towns through south west regions, also a Pandora’s Box of stereotypes.  

Good on Brad for having a quest. Not sure if I understand his obsession, but at least I could relate to someone who’d gotten off their butt and done something.  

Those backpackers, thrill seekers, traveller types, are fuelled by a different spirit. Afterwards they locked away an essence, bring it out some time later, to pour over. Eventually my own mother got stuck inside memories; even while they faded from her grasp. Before her end, she couldn’t talk to me, or even recognize her only daughter.  

I remember when we’d hosted students from Notre Dame University, Indiana – surf was howling into Yallingyup. Such ruckus on our bus; everyone shouted, “Stop!”  

So we did. For a bob-tail Goanna crossing Caves Road. They’d never seen anything so amazing. Overdependence on superlatives, if you ask me. Those, land-locked state kids fairly wetting their pants at sight of Indian Ocean, creating perfect C shapes cruising into pristine white sand. Swell like aqua corduroy fabric. Sometimes there isn’t enough gasped, ‘Oh wows!’ To equate. But like I said, don’t really know much about surf.  

As Brad and I came around final bends, down slight slopes, and he took in a sign declaring Margaret River. Poor lad’s face sank at sight of a green, half hidden, oversized storm water drain zone, loosely termed as a river.  

‘This can’t be where they have surfing competitions?’  

I couldn’t help chuckling; poor misinformed, lives other side of a wide continent, soul. Did he think Margaret River one of those British ones, you know, with tide changes where if you wait long enough a wave magically appears?  

‘No, love, the coast is about 10 miles from here,’ I tried to reassure. ‘That’s where you’ll find waves. Can’t surf here. They hold those big comps near the river mouth, I think.’

Let him out at Country Kitchen, bottom of the hill, said those girls might help him find his waves. At least they’d provide good wholesome food and point him toward a reasonably priced place to stay.  

You didn’t think me a dirty old lady who kept Brad to myself, after all I was headed for mums. How would arrival with a surfer hunk go down? Sharing whatever nice piece of fish, she’d got from rods of her retired buddies, and then squeezing young Brad into her spare bedroom. Not to mention a bag of getting less fresh by the minute veggies I’d grabbed from road-side stalls coming into Bunbury.  

Sometimes I wonder where Brad might be now.

By Karen Lethlean

From: Australia