Diamond Plate

The body bag seems a bit dramatic. And not in a fun “Oh my god did you really suck him off?” kind of way, more in a “Alright Marc Jacobs, we get it, you like puffy sleeves” kind of way. Just over-the-top for the sake of it, you know? The bag is this seasick green colour, and the fabric probably has no stretch to it whatsoever. But the main issue is the fit. It’s all wrong. I know baggy is in right now, but this just screams thoughtless. There really wasn’t enough of her left to warrant so much material. If they’d have left her in for a little longer, she’d have been ready for an urn. One encrusted with jewels. Oh, and with that kind of lid that vacuum seals onto the top. THWOCK! Like the sound of pulling out too fast –

I should cover my mouth before anyone sees me smile. They’ll think I’m demented or something for sure, laughing at this. Not to mention they’ll be confused: Diamond and I were thick as thieves. But she would have gotten it. You gotta make light of these things, you know?

I get up off the concrete step, but my mate Johnno puts his hand on my shoulder. “Where are you headed, Maxy?” Oh yeah, he’s also my boss.

“Nunya business.”

“HR says we gotta wait ‘til WorkSafe has finished sweeping the place, so park it.” The rest of the men grunt in agreement, either kicking red dust into a cloud or gloomily inspecting the inside of their hard hats.

“This is stupid. We’re just burning time.”

“Stop sooking. As long as we’re sitting here, we’re still on the clock. Besides, Miles would’ve wanted us bludging off... God knows old mate used to do it enough himself.” He can’t help glancing at the body bag being thrown into the back of a panel van.

“I can’t sit around here. I’ve got shit to do.”

“She’s got a big show to get ready for, Johnno. Can’t keep the boys waiting, hey Copper?” This charming closet case is Andy. Dickhead. Though he’d never own up to it, he’s probably been to more shows at GeeGee’s than I have. You can always spot his bright red mug near the back of the room: Close enough that he can call out all sorts of stupid shit but far enough that he won’t cop a heel to the face for it. ‘Course if you ask him, he’s just there for the cheap drinks.

Johnno stares Andy down. “Shut up and finish your incident report.” Andy slinks away like a scolded kid and shuffles his dog-eared paperwork.

“Can I at least get my shit so I’m ready to shove off when we get the OK?”

 “You sure you’re okay? This stuff with Miles must have you rattled.”

“Oh yeah, nah, actually... I’m upset. Devastated. That’s why I gotta go.” Johnno narrows his eyes at me. “It’s uh... for my mental health”.

Johnno sighs, then gives me the go-ahead by thumbing in the direction of the locker room. As I walk off, I can hear a few of the other guys trying to play the same card and getting shut down by Johnno. Johnno always had a soft spot for me, and who could blame him what with me being as gorgeous as I am? Never gave him a gobby though: He’s too nice of a bloke for that, and he’s got a real sweet family too.

Making my way back inside the factory, I can’t help seeing it in a different light. Literally, I mean. The sun’s setting over it, and I’m usually headed out at this time of day. It looks menacing: All the dust kicked up from utes barrelling down the dirt roads nearby is just stuck there in the still air, creating a smog around the whole facility. And those evening rays pick up every single speck, fierce as ever through the ozone hole. Holding up my hand to shield the light for a sec, the factory looks like one big creature. It’s got the furnace chimney sticking up like a head atop a gorgeously elongated neck, spewing its smoke into the sky. And the material conveyors are like arms stretching out, blocking the horizon from view. Even as a monster, it still looks kind of silly. Like it’s saying “Come give Mumma a big hug!” in a deep, menopausal voice.

Alright Mumma, I’ll give you a hug. You take my daylight from me, you take my body from me, and now you take my friend from me. But you’re that one habit I just can’t seem to kick.

Heading up the rusted-out stairway on the south side of the factory, I make my way into the office and feel the sweet, cold kiss of ducted air-conditioning. I’m trying to make the most of it, because GeeGee’s is bound to have me sweating like a whore in church.

I head into the locker room: Hard hat off, hi-vis vest off, cargo pants, work wear, and grimy undies off, the last of which I basically have to peel off my legs. Stripped down to my birthday suit, I check out my body. Apart from the soot, I’m not looking too shabby. One good thing about stoking fires all day is it keeps your body tight and lean. And my calves? Sent from the heavens; absolutely divine. If I could just get rid of this fucking jaw line, I’d have men lining up around the corner.

Alright, enough stroking my ego: I have to wash up and get out of here. I step into the shower cubicle at the end of the tiled hallway (I always feel safest with my back to a wall) and turn on the water. The frigid water is pulled from deep under the facility, beyond the reach of the baking sun, and I get little adrenaline rush when it hits my chest. I resist that reptile part of my brain that screams to do a little dance to keep warm, and I try to stay perfectly still under the icy stream like some stoic monk.

Just as my body’s getting used to the cold, the door to the locker room squeaks open.

“Hey Copper, Boss says I smell like rat piss. Mind if I join ya for a rinse?” Oh God, Andy. His ever-drunk voice is unmistakeable.

“Good, there’re about twenty-nine other cubicles so feel free to take one of them.” I’m yelling over the shower stream, hoping my voice doesn’t show any sign of hesitation. A quiver or one false note is like blood in the water for Andy. But if you just give him the business, he usually scampers away with his emasculated dribbler tucked between his legs.

“Aw come on, have a heart! All this shit with Miles has me feeling lonely. I need a shoulder to cry on, you know? Some company.”

“Check out the numbers on the toilet wall: I bet some of those girls could suck the tears right out of you.” His steps are coming down the aisle, clothes sliding off. Why can’t he just leave me alone for two seconds?

Best plan of attack with Andy is to stand your ground. Like a grizzly bear: Just make yourself big, speak calmly, and make deliberate movements. Of course, there’s no bears out here in the middle of Queensland... except the ones hanging out behind the Woolies on Friday nights. But the same tactic works with them too.

I step out of the shower, my full 8-inch personage on display. Andy, caught mid-predatory stride, stops in his tracks.

“Sorry Andy, I haven’t got my fake tits on yet, so you’ll just have to whack it to one of my old headshots.” Andy gives a gulp that wobbles right down his double chin and into his forested gut. Dripping wet, I move towards him, keeping eye contact, then shove past him to the lockers.

I run a towel over myself, slip on my trackies and pull on a large hoodie – Yes, I’m going commando. Now is not the time to be chaste: I’d rather have my bulge showing through these sweatpants than spend another moment in here.

Andy’s just recovering from being breezed past as I grab my shit and turn to leave. But I make the mistake of throwing a cautious glance back in his direction: He catches my eye and gets a little taste of that fear he wanted so bad. A greasy smirk spreads across his face.

“I guess I’ll have to pay like everyone else, ay? See ya tonight, darling!”

What a solid gold wanker.