In late February I was riding my bike along a main street in the Perth CBD when I was stopped in my tracks. A massive machine was oozing hot black tar across one half of the road. The image was fascinating for several reasons.
Firstly, the sight wasn’t one you’d expect to see in an era that boasts 27 different types of hand sanitizer. The black gluggy streetscape looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. I fully expected Oliver Twist to tug my shirt tail asking the whereabouts of more gruel.
Indeed, given society’s focus on clean, green environments, the mound of naked steaming sludge was rightfully confronting. The only dark sludge I’d come across in my lifetime was a welcoming bowl of Chocolate Fudge Pudding, or a dainty laver cake served up on MasterChef. Rather than instil mouth-watering glee, this slick of seeping stench left me holding my breath.
Perhaps the fascination also lay with watching something being mended. Such backbreaking labour-intensive work seemed at odds with our world of verge clearances or being able to push a button and communicate face to face with relatives on the other side of the world.
As I watched on half dozen Fluro-clad men stood chatting around the sludge generator (it’s technical name I’m sure). Modern-day etiquette dictated there was only one appropriate response. I stopped to take a photograph.
As I raised my mobile phone to document the event, I wondered whether I was allowed to take said snap.
Does road resurfacing, and the resulting discussions taking part, constitute Secret Men’s Business? Would I be hauled down to the Police Station for breaking some privacy code? Would my phone be confiscated? The thoughts swirled in my head as my recalcitrant fingers quickly took the shot. Having gotten away with it, I set up to take another but then noticed movement amongst the group of men. I’d been sprung.
Trying to appear as innocent as possible, I feigned intense interest in a nearby street sign as I slowly stowed my phone in my pocket.
“Hey!” one of the workers yelled out which caused the rest of the group to look in my direction.
“Hey, hey!” he hollered, making me meet his gaze.
Looking at this self-appointed leader of the group, his cheeky grin that of a look 14 year old.
“Hey, do you want this?” he added while raising his shirt to reveal a hairy, middle aged spread. More blancmange than six pack if I’m honest.
“Hey,” the rest of the group joined in, smiles beaming.
I was dumbstruck.
My spontaneous reaction, driven by nature or nurture I’m not sure, was to giggle. I’d not been privy to such a flippant display of male bravado for years.
Deep in the recesses of my brain a comforting memory triggered, the knowledge that I wasn’t in trouble. But as my lips moulded into a broad smile and my head dipped in a slight acknowledgement towards the group, another part of my brain chimed in. The part that had been worn down into a mishappened pebble. I’d read enough articles to know that the current zeitgeist suggested, no expected, me to be horrified. And yet I wasn’t.
For a moment my thoughts lingered on simpler times. Times when as a younger woman I knew what to expect and how to react when passing a worksite. Times when you’d stand a little taller after receiving a kerbside whistle. Now I was less sure of my actions.
What was I meant to do? Should I have taken a photo of their faces and reported them to their bosses, or name and shamed them on social media? Should I yell out my disgust?
As I watched the leader let his shirt fall back to its rightful position, I registered a look of confusion on his part too. The exuberant smile had drained from his face, in its place a look of apprehension. We stood for a moment, looking at one another, like two World War I soldiers from opposite sides who’d found themselves in no-man’s-land on Christmas Eve. What were the rules here?
I answered his confusion with a warm smile and turned my bike to leave.
Looking over my shoulder I watched the boyish twinkle returned to his eye as he registered friendly fire. He dropped his head in a nod and waved me goodbye.
Sure, there are actions between the sexes that completely step over the mark of decency. Similarly, there are times when political correctness is highly valued. But I do hope that as we emerge into this new world some of the smaller moments of levity between men and women, can avoid being completely tarred over in society’s rush to present a flawless surface.
For more short essays you might be interested in Wit and Wisdom, a collection of short essays. See Amazon.com or Amazon.com.au
