Rowan and His Mate Joey

Rowan and His Mate Joey

By Joanne E Galliher

A 2,000-word fictional short story, inspired by true events

The sunrise is so delicious. Sherbet swirls of strawberry, orange, and lemon.

Kookaburras’ hoo hoo hahahaha. Black Cockatoos’ kee-ow kee-ow. Peee---WAH-PEESH, whistles a male Whipbird. Chew-chew replies a female Whipbird. Woop-woop-woop warbles a Woop-Woop Bird. Then, there’s a long stretch of silence—seldom heard in cities.

The sunrise’s perfume’s intoxicating—Eucalyptus leaves’ minty-honey and the soil’s smoky sweetness.

I feel restless this sunrise. I reach to adjust my pillow.

Why’s it hard as a rock and covered in wire?

What’s that smell? Fresh hay and rain/sun-baked dirt.

Opening my eyes makes the clouds and trees go up, down and spin around.

And why’s there a chain gang pounding spikes inside my head?

Yep, that smell is Rowan. Why is my head on his naked, hairy lap? I wish he’d wear pants instead of shorts.

From a radio: “G’day you Out West Queensland folks! Grass Guru, here! Kick back and rrrreee-lax! I’m gonna share my ‘101 Ways to Grow Great Lucerne.’ What time it’ll finish? We folks keep time set at Now O’clock.”

Rowan is a ‘Waste Not Wally.’ That’s got to be the TR-63 transistor radio, first-off the assembly line.

I love how they call Rowan and I ‘Jack and Jill.’ We sure are sewn at the hips, working together sunup to sundown.

Oh, I’m Joey O’Sullivan. I’ve only been a jillaroo this last year. I used to be a teacher and a speech pathologist. And, today’s my 60th birthday.

About Rowan’s nickname, ‘Jackie Paper…’ (as in Puff the Magic Dragon) ... Every building on Rowan’s 35,000-acre cattle station is a recycled shipping container. Every bit of ‘trash’ gets used for something. Take the row-crop tractor I drive. After 32 years, that 1978 John Deere still purrs like a kitten. I’ve just finished driving it some 320 hours, over 50 days.

I’ll be darned. After 41 years of sweat, dirt and manure weighing down his Akubra, Rowan’s finally giving it a day off. At long last, I’ll get a bird’s eye view of his face.

I bet Rowan’s face is a dead ringer for Robert Mitchum. I know he’s built like him. Same brawny broad shoulders; and beefy, slender built. But, Rowan’s taller, at least 6 foot 7.

Rowan’s 59 but hasn’t lost that little boy twinkle in his eyes and smile. Listening to Gazza, you’d think he was hearing the kid’s favorite story, ‘Crooked Snake’ read to him.

Rowan’s face a dead ringer for Robert Mitchum? Same ruddy-brown complexion. Same chiselled features. Same cleft chin. Same baby-blue, sleepy hound dog eyes and camel eyelashes. But Rowan’s blue eyes, with their silver specks makes him look very wise.

He looks more 29 than 59. Not a single wrinkle. His sandy-brown hair’s not grey, thinning or receding.

Rowan’s mannerism, humility and courage puts him in my ‘League of the Last John Wayne Men.’

While he’s so engrossed, I’ll tell you about his 35,000-acre cattle station. He has owned it--‘O’Brien BMMW Cattle Station,’ 34 years. 'O’Brien Brangus Marbled Meat Wagyu.’

Most graziers have Brahman. But Rowan hasn’t even one. His cattle produce 100% marbled meat. There are 9,000 Brangus (Brahman X Angus); and 5,000 Wagyu. The latter’s made up of 3,000 93% full-blood Wagyu; and 2,000 75% full-blood Wagyu. Rowan’s cattle muscle bulk up fast so they eat less.

I love 98% of my chores. I don’t like collecting semen. No one could like watching a bull mount another bull; and then, sticking the ‘Artificial Vagina’ on his penis… And moving it up and down, until he ejaculates. I also hate gloving up to my armpits to check if cows are pregnant.

Rowan hasn’t watched any TV since he left home 41 year ago. And the guys and I sure don’t miss TV. Evening bonfires, fishing and trapping wild boars beats TV, hands-down.

Gazza’s winding up that Lucerne spiel.

Just as I’m about to open my eyes…

Rowan shocks the heck out of me. He starts tenderly stroking my forehead.

I bung-on a big yawn and stretch. And I notice my arms. “Wow. Looks like I got caught in the mower.”

Rowan’s brows furrow. “Your legs are worse… “Joey, you out-ran 70 hornier than hell bulls and cows!”

His eyes are as big as dinner plates. “How you found your way through the dust cloud they kicked up… And how you leapt into that ravine…”

I’m dumbfounded.

“Joey, we had 40 Mickies corralled; ready to castrate the next day. Damned if they didn’t get a whiff of the 30 in-heat cows corralled 500 meters away!”

Rowan’s frantically nodding. “Well, tomorrow, we’ll move those two corrals way apart!”

I stare into space. “I remember. You let me ride ‘Horrible,’ the one and only horse that took you yonks to break. You picked me Lead. As we searched for the cattle, I made sure the wind was always in my face. I knew the Mickies would-be right-on the horny cows’ tails, running into the wind.”

Well, here’s a first—Rowan’s angry. “We can’t have heaps of Mickies, uncastrated bulls running amuck.”

I’m muttering. “Bulls only have a small rooting window. Cows are only horny 8 to 30 hours. No wonder Mickies root 30+ times a day…”

Rowan’s laughing. “Joey, your mind’s like a dirty book. Ah HAH! You’ve perved-on them. Haven’t you?”

The more I try to back-peddle, the more Rowan teases me.

Then there are long minutes of dead silence.

“Hey, Rowan, right where we’re sitting, in the middle of Leprechaun Patch, is my favourite place.”

I feel a burst of pride. “Rowan, thanks for trusting me, to hay-bale 5,000 acres of it.”

With a smile and a wink, he says, “My pleasure, Mate.”

“And, Rowan, you also know there’s no better feeling than sitting so far above the ground, you could touch the sky. All those 320 hours of mowing, raking, running the Tedder and square baler… I felt like a free-range Brumby filly.”

Rowan’s smile is the softest I’ve ever seen it. “Joey, it’s nice to see your face. It’s always hiding under your Akubra. You’ve got Betty Davis Eyes. Hell, they’re also like brown marbles… Yeah, as any playful Meercat’s.”

His eyes dive into mine. He tenderly whispers, “Pretty… Delicious as milk chocolate.”

As if shocked by his own words… He leaps to his feet. Stuffs his hands into his pockets. Paces helter-skelter; and mutters to his bare feet. “I’m glad you chose me… Uh, I mean, being my jillaroo… Instead of teaching station kids, through School of the Air.”

We’re speechless. We’re both wishing the floor would open and swallow us up.

Then, Rowan sounds serious. “Drink some more Lemon Grass. It’ll stop the chain gang in your head.”

Wow. Rowan does read my mind.

He adds, “I squeezed some Hop Bush roots; and made a paste. Dobbed it on your cuts. Damn good antiseptic.”

“So, the guys call you ‘Tarzan of the Outback’ because you know about bush medicine.”

“Nah. Since I left home at 18, I’ve only worn shoes once. For a mate’s wedding. I haven’t needed a doctor or a dentist. Hell, just gargling the last sip of tea gets rid of food bits. And, eating what the Outback provides keeps me healthy.”

I dreamily gaze at the 15,000-acre sea of grass. “Why’d you name this Leprechaun Patch?”

Rowan twirls two blades of Lucerne lost, in a memory. “Joey, you know how you said your dad’s in your exclusive league--‘The Last of the John Wayne Men?’ Well, you’d add my mate, Aboriginal Sam, to that. He’s the best damn Ringer. He took me from city boy, all the way up the Bushman Ladder—jackaroo, drover and then Ringer. He gave me, the divining rod that had been in his family hundreds of years. In less than an hour of walking around, it found my underground water. It keeps my cattle’s 15,000-acre Lucerne as their 24-hour, all year open diner. And me having Irish blood… Well, I concoct tales. I tell everyone when we’ve had days without wind, Leprechauns come out of their Button Grass homes and ride the pump’s windmill, like a Ferris Wheel.”

Suddenly, there’s a river of sweat running down my neck and back.

Rowan mutters to his bare feet, again. “Oh… Well… I uh… Took advantage of you.”

You bet my eyes are super Betty Davis Eyes, now.

Rowan blusteringly adds, “Hell, any red-blooded bloke would do the same!”

“Wish I had a camera! Joey as stunned as a mullet! Priceless!”

“That braided halo thing that you put on top of your head? Damn ugly. So, I let out your hair. I’ve never seen a Sheila with hair so long, she could wear it as a dress! Damn pretty.”

Rowan gathers me up in his arms. I feel like Lois Lane in Superman’s arms. “Enough lollygagging! Let’s head to town.”

So, off we go, in Rowan’s 40-year-old Land Rover; named Matilda. Like most things around here, Rowan gave her Eight Lives.

As soon as we turn onto the highway, we hit new potholes.

Rowan steers Matilda out of her bucking bull moves.

He tenderly kisses the steering wheel. He flashes a mischievous smile at me, and whispers to it. “Driving you and riding you… has been a delight no other Sheila ever gave me.”

I give Rowan a very dry, “Ha Ha.”

Out of nowhere, he says, “While the stars shine out above us. Like the eyes of those who love us…”

I smile and add “…The eyes of those who watch and wait to greet the cattle home.”

He plants a horse fly slap my leg; and says, “You’re a damn good jillaroo and you know Banjo Paterson!”

I return his horse fly slap… “Heard you were a rich kid.”

“Yeah. Did private school right through year 12. Kept the damn short sides and back hair cut… Great bait for catching Sheilas’ hearts. And, Mum’s still a bio-chemistry university lecturer. Dad’s a retired bank CEO.”

At last I hear about Rowan’s past. Fence-mending on the 5,615 km Dingo Fence. A roving Ringer, making cattle stations run tip top. Driving monster 3-trailer, 50-meter-long road trains. “Driving that Eyre Highway paid top dollar… Nothing but repetitive scenery, without a single bend… for 1,660kms…”

I’m laughing. “You’ve got last night’s gravy on your chin. You’re a grub.”

With a glib chuckle, Rowan pulls his shirt tail to his chin. “Good ‘ole trusty Bushman’s Hanky!”

…

Our conversation made the 2-hour drive like mere minutes. Parked outside the stamp-sized supermarket; Rowan boasts, “Clock me. Three months’ worth of groceries in under 58 minutes” I smugly say, “As if.”

He’s back in 48 minutes! Just the boxes of loose tea take up 20 cases. Tin Fruit. Tin vegetables. Toilet tissue. So many cardboard boxes, a family of five could build a comfy hobble. He only buys long-lasting root type vegetables. I take care of our 15 X 15-meter vegetable patch.

There’s a package at the post office, for me. Since Mum and Dad died, my sister Kate and I keep our family’s birthday tradition going. Mum and Dad always gave us new pillows; with wisdom embroidered on them. Kate sure knew what wisdom Mum and Dad would’ve shared. Mum’s is, “Dream as if you’ll live forever, live as if you’ll die today.” Dad’s is, “Life is the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”

Rowan slaps my back and bellows, “It’s no 60th birthday without a celebration! Let’s stop at Sally’s Roadhouse!”

Sally brings us the Red Velvet birthday cake he asked her to bake.

“Well, hate to break this up,” she growls.

Rowan and I notice we’re both leaned right into each other’s face. We spring back, as if a snake bites our noses.

At the top of her voice, Sally says, “Hell. You two have been moon-eyeing each other, yonks. It’s time you kissed!”

Sally and the dozens of diners laugh. Rowan and I just gawk at each other. Looking like a pair of stunned mullets.

The End.