I try to help him.

‘There’s work in Mackay if you want it. Labouring work. You’ve got to want to work though. It’s there if you’re willing to have a go.’

He shrugs and reads me something about broken animals. Cows and calves looking like hessian sacks stuffed with sticks. Starving. Crows and all sorts of scavengers picking the highway to bits. Cowboy convoys in their lorries converging on the coast with every container and tank ready to fill with water. Dual cabs stuffed with sixty gallons worth of hat alone, hauling their load home. Sloshing like a bellyful of water.

He’s writing a road story as I drive. The black ribbon winding away beneath us. That sort of thing.

‘All the reservoirs are drying up here too. Longest drought went for eight whole years with similar patterns to this.’ He quotes from any number of service-station men sluggishly pumping petrol, pumping petrol and waiting.

The Holden limps along, over-heating over eighty. Thirsty. Creeping by Mt Magog, Ogmore, Mt Buffalo, Mt Joss and St Lawrence. Creeping through this stretch of wasteland as he writes his road story.

I try to help him.

He was standing beside the road with a small library tucked under one arm, with a card that read GLADSTONE propped against his legs. He joked about having to travel that far for a good steak. then he read a poem he wrote ‘for the worker.’

‘These landscapes and lifestyles aren’t close enough to me from behind this windscreen. Pull over. I need to take a piss.’

I pull to the side of the road, cut the engine. A great semi gusts past. The wagon wobbles. He climbs out his open window and cheers, climbs down an embankment and wanders into the wasteland. The engine ticks as I wait beside an empty road. Heat rises further on. I can smell bloated corpses. I can hear thirsty wasteland calves bleating.

It was Friday night and the pub was unruly, hostile. He stood at the bar and attempted to read his poem and was ridiculed. He decided to head for Townsville. Another town, another poem. I tried to tell him, ‘There’s labouring work in Mackay.’ He shrugged and read me something about soldiering.

He clears his throat, lights a cigarette - he’s been smoking Craven since studying truckers in a Rockhampton diner. He climbs back in through the open window, pulls a fistful of dirt from his pocket. He smells it. He pokes his pale tongue into it. He chuckles like a kid. He writes his road story as I fire the engine and drive.

He says he’s searching for truth. He says all road writers are. Like gazing up to greet the first evening star. He asks if I believe in the moon. I try to negotiate a reasonable conversation before he insists that I answer. I tell him the truth. He recounts myths.

A silence sits between us. I drive over the audio-lines to amuse myself. He asks if the tyres are flat.

He turns on the radio, runs the dial, finally settles on the races. He turns up the volume as race five at Eagle farm jumps. He wagers a million dollars on number three. It’s knocked at the turn and loses by twelve lengths. He doubles up on the top-weight in the sixth.

He turns off the radio, says he’s tired and reclines his seat. I tell him we’ll have to camp soon anyway, so that the engine doesn’t over-heat. We’ll find a rest-stop and sleep.



He had his eyes closed as he spoke about bedding down in a bus shelter, barely out of the rain. Huddled like a heap of aching bones and cramp as the wind rifles through your dripping clothes. As you shake with cold you realise that you’re really happy because before you had to dash for cover you were standing beside the road at dusk without a single car or bus or truck to disturb your praise to the evening star and the rolling clouds and moon. It was graceful. It was divine.

I had to say that it sounded like shit to me. Gazing about at stars and clouds and moons distracts a man from working. No, I don’t care for the bloody moon. It’s like a headlight. You get dazzled by it. Next thing you know you’re on your arse. A man’s better off putting his head down, keeping his mind on the job. It’s the only way that pays...

He was sleeping when I stopped. I crawled into the back of the wagon and crashed.




The morning is poised, ready to unfurl a stroke of heat. He climbs out the open window, reaches back inside for his bag, books, cigarettes and things. A fresh wallaby is smeared along the road. It hasn’t begun to stink, but it’s gut has already inflated. He straightens and offers his hand and says gratefully, ‘I’ve come to this part in my story.’

I shake his hand and watch him dawdle up the road, lost in his road story. I yell after him to stop, that he might as well ride with me to Mackay. But he doesn’t hear, doesn’t turn around, stop or wait. I climb back in behind the wheel, turn the engine over. The sky looks pale as I shift into gear and pull out onto the highway, headed towards Carmila, Ilbilbie and Koumala, reaching for Mackay.

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