Babes in the Covid Woods

Cafe Locked Out:

Her hands, which have worked in shearing sheds all across the land, belong to a roustabout and then a wool classer until she left the shearers to use those hands to work on the docks up north. There, she learned to drive cranes and tie up cargo ships to the docks after they had ridden the high tide into port to fill their holds with iron ore. This is only a snippet of her history of manual work, yet tonight, in this cheaply rented donger, her hands are gently caressing me.

In her early forties, she has spent her life following the heart of her gypsy soul, job-drifting through a man’s world. She is a true disciple of Germaine Greer, yet she has never heard of the revolutionary woman, nor is she particularly interested in feminist ideology. Despite this, she is one of its poster children, simply by having the courage to be herself.

While her smile is a woman’s, and her body’s grace is a woman’s, when I dine on her other mouth, which opens up to let me deeper in, she twists and groans like only a woman can. She then arches her back and grabs the rear of my feeding head with the iron grip of a working-class man.

Thoroughly independent, she has left her secret hold and is now using her soul to redecorate this tiny room. But as the air conditioner softly whirs, she pulls me closer and deeply buries her head in my neck, as if I were some sort of human cave offering her shelter from this storm.

“Isn’t it amazing,” she whispers, her eyes closed, “how good it feels to have another body next to yours.”

For all her skills and despite her work ethic, she is now an economic refugee, cast out because her veins are free of the MRNA vaccine. She has already lost her job at the ports, and while she has picked up another job organizing a yard with a forklift, the job is well below her skill set. The wage is not enough for her to keep living in this mining town, which is predominantly populated by those who have received three jabs.

But it’s harder to move now, as she has family and friends here, and she has put down roots, even though many of them can’t understand why she refuses to give in. Maybe that’s why she’s holding onto me. We are like babes lost in the woods, taking a break from searching for the country we’ve lost, to try and get some sleep.

Even when she kisses me, it’s like a drowning person desperate to breathe, but by inhaling deeply, she fills me with her precious air.

In the morning, she rose and made us a cup of coffee. As I sat in bed watching her, her gypsy soul offered me the rare delight of seeing her like this.

I wondered, as I watched the downlights shading the curve of her scrumptious bum, how many of the male workers she has worked with were craving to reach this view. Or, because they knew she was unvaccinated, did they now see her as less, as something unclean, untouchable? If so, then I pray that in this new world, I remain forever blind, for to me, I felt blessed to be privy to her rare and secret sunrise.

This woman, whose freedom to be herself is now being curtailed by a government that needs to steal it from her, is suddenly the target of a cultural and economic assault because they are so concerned for her health.

Then, cups in hand, she comes back to the bed. This woman, whose body and story I have been exploring all night, hands me my cup of instant coffee, which is all this motel room offers.

I say, “I’m really loving watching you,” and then, after she sits and kisses me deeply, she says.

“Good,” without a smile, “Because I want you to watch me too.”

Michael Gray Griffith

May 2022. Karratha

The Deplorables Epic Road Trip