Dozer - Page 2

From Griffith REVIEW Edition 20: Cities on the Edge
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Written by John Kinsella

So why am I a hypocrite?

Why do I destroy the birds' habitat? Well, I don't go out wantonly destroying. I do a job that someone else would do worse than me. It'd get done anyway and a man's got to live. No, no, I don't have a family – other than my old mum. Never got round to it. And yes, it could be done worse than I do it. As basic as revving the engines, or working through the area you're clearing before work – you know, making a racket, driving things off. Sometimes I give things a nudge with the dozer before backing up and letting it rip.

Inevitably, it'd get raucous, and Matt would tire of the long-hairs' zeal and say his goodnight: see you out there tomorrow. In a short time, he'd almost got addicted to the drama, the attention. He enjoyed talking – arguing even – with people outside his profession. He'd always been a workman with workmates. These long-hairs were from another planet. They were like children: they were himself, or a bit of himself, not grown up.

THE STRETCH OF FOREST he and his mates were clearing was to make way for a national highway. He was connecting east and west. Sometimes he caught sight of a bird or a lizard going under, but it happened fast and he had to get on with it. Walking over the area at dusk after knock-off, he stood by the huge heaps being readied for burning, and saw the rainbow of parrot feathers. Away, at the fenced edge where the long-hairs stood, he could make out a sign saying the last habitat of an endangered parrot would go under in the next few days. He shrugged his shoulders.

Work was held up when the dozers and loaders had their tanks sugared. Some of his workmates planned to go over to the protest camp in the early morning and give the long-hairs a beating. He said: ‘Nah, leave it to the cops.' He was pissed off though – exquisite pieces of machinery treated like shit. No respect. Even with the battering they took in the line of duty, they did the job. He called his machine Enola and loved her. He'd loved all his machines over the years. They all had names of the women he'd have liked to meet, or to know more than briefly. ‘Why Enola?' his boss asked. The bomber – she was a beautiful bird, a piece of art, and yet so brutal, so destructive. The boss looked at him sideways, thinking him odd but a good worker. He didn't like speaking with the workers more than necessary anyway, and returned to pondering his site map, left foot up on a rock, shorts crisper than an advert.

Enola had been retired. The sugar had killed her off. Matt's new dozer he named Peach. She's a peach, he laughed. The boss said, ‘Now, Matt, you go and break that peach in!' The boss rubbed his beard and laughed to himself. The machinery was kept in a wired secure area and Matt pointed Peach out through the gate and towards the forest.

Most of the long-hairs were gone – arrested, or just given up. A few of the young girls with green hair and tattoos were hanging about, and a couple of camp dogs. One of the blokes he'd told his bird-secret to was arguing with the cops; he could see hands waving about all over the place. And then the long-hair broke through and was running at Peach, at Matt. The cops were giving chase, but the long-hair was like a kangaroo. In a few seconds he'd be in front of the dozer. A slow machine even on flat ground, so Matt had plenty of time to stop. But he didn't. He drove steadily on, straight over the long-hair.

As shock set instantly in, he heard himself say: ‘I care, I care, I care.' No more dozers will create havoc around here. The birds will nest safely and look after the soul of the long-hair.  ♦