Chapter 1: Truckpark

I’m just your average bloke, Mark Cornwall, driver, photographer, presently in that order. You know, regular height and weight, reasonably fit through regular running, not particularly sporty, but no couch potato either. My hair was once a reddish blond when I was a nipper, but it turned darker to light mousy brown in my youth and was now receding early. Well, I thought at 38 I was showing a little more beach along my hair shoreline than I did twenty years earlier. I was alone and lonely, yes, and I was certainly left bitter by my experiences. So I tended towards behaving business-like rather than sociable in my people dealings. No chit-chat about the weather or sport, just ‘what do you want delivered?’, ‘where, when, and how much you are prepared to pay?’. I was living on my own and I had got used to it. No, more than that I actually preferred my own company. I didn’t have to put in the effort to converse, entertain or even care about anyone else. Lonely? Yes, sure I was, without a single living relative, true, but I felt safe in my cocoon of indifference, I couldn’t get hurt again that way. Loneliness gave me too much time to think though, yeah, but I guess that happens to a lot of average blokes who’ve been messed about by above average sheilas.

Well, for the last year or so, with my company smoothly ticking over, I had a lot of time on my hands, time for reflection, time to think and self assess my past and my future. I made my decisions. They were signed, sealed and despatched. I had jacked in my lot and the freedom beckoned like a moth to the light.

Now I have a single, simple set task to physically occupy myself for the next few days. There was no turning back, just get this one little delivery job out of the way with no dramas and then I was done with the logistics business and done with my life in Straya, for the next couple of years at least.

It was the day before Christmas and, as I was the only qualified driver in the haulage company with no family to visit or be visited by, I was the one who volunteered, working the business’s only available truck delivering throughout the festivities of Chrissie and Boxing Day. I had six days to carry 60 tonnes of newsprint from the mill down at Maryvale NSW to The Darwin Sentinel way up in the Northern Territory. This was my second day out and I was comfortably well ahead of schedule. I was hoping to take time out en route to take some photos.

Boy, was it still hot, I thought, as soon as I climbed out of my cool cab and stepped down onto the hot tar surface of the truck park. Even in the shade of the eucalyptus trees lining one side of the vast carpark area, it was still over 35 in the shade. But this was definitely the best pozzy in the yard by a long stride. It was lucky for me that, being Christmas Eve, and after five in the arvo, the restaurant and servo was already closed up for the holidays and I was the only road train parked up here. Couldn’t have planned it more perfectly. Not even a rusty ute had parked in the place, just an untidy pile of old tyres by the gutter near the entrance. Even the dunnies were chained up and padlocked. Anyway, my expectations had not been too high of getting a hot meal at any time during the festivities, so I came prepared to dine comfortably alone.

It was a nice evening to cook outside, so I checked out the truck stop’s barbie area. The first barbie I gave a Captain Cook at seemed fine and I lit my bag of coals under the grill. I don’t smoke, so I don’t normally carry a lighter, but the one stored with the rig’s bags of charcoal was almost empty. I made a mental note to get a couple of replacements at the next truck stop or servo, one for the truck and the other I’d need for my back pack.

From the fridge I broke out a 300g ribeye steak and put it on a plate to warm up until the barbie grill was hot to trot. I took a couple of frozen snags out of a pack to toss on the barbie when I was good and ready for them. I had a couple of prepared salads in the fridge but thought I’d leave them in the cool as long as poss before unwrapping the one of my choice for today. I had plenty of time, and poured myself an ice cold tinny of VB and sat down on a bench table near the barbie, in the shade provided by the trees. I picked up where I left off in the current pulp crime thriller book I was reading. I wouldn’t drive for at least another eight hours, so I could afford the luxury of necking a single frosted coldie with my early supper. I was long out of the habit of driving all day and I felt stiff and stuffed.

Hey, I know that Australian regulations under BFM are pretty relaxed, dangerously so in my humble. As a legally licensed road train driver, I’m allowed to drive 14 hours a day, with a 15 minute break in between two seven-hour sessions, followed by a rest break of seven hours; but my company rule is that we only drive for five or six hours, have a one- to two-hour break and then drive a further five or six hours, depending on convenient truck stops, but driving no more than 12 hours on the road in any 24 hours. Driving alone on long distances in the desert, your mind gets bored and tired, in the heat mirages can play tricks on you and it’s easy to lose your concentration along the way. My rules worked for my company, we hadn’t lost a driver or a single load in all the five years I was running the business, and we had increased our big truck stable from twelve to twenty-one trucks, although not all were road trains, like me Uncle’s trusty B-double that I was driving, with its spartan but adequate sleeper cab.

It was a beautiful evening and I got out my old camera and shot a few nice landscapes with the Flinders mountain range in the northwest lit up in a warm glow as sunset approached. Looking up the road to the north I saw a dust cloud, so it looked a possibility that I was going to have company in the next few minutes or so. I checked the coals, they were white hot already, so I put the steak on for three minutes each side, added the snags for the last three minutes with a couple or three half turns to crisp them up and had it all plated and was back inside my sleeper cab with the door closed tight against the dust, the lazy afternoon flies and the early evening onset of mozzies. I was safely inside by the time my unwanted neighbours for the night showed up like a modern wagon train.

I peered out of the window from my driving seat as five identical toppo Winnebagoes rolled up, followed by a choking cloud of desert dust. They had consecutive regos, I noticed, so they were more likely owned by a corporation, pulling in some serious crust, than an individual. These imported Winnoes don’t come cheap.

Still, the steak was perfect, pink in the middle just like I preferred it, and I’d decided on one of the Caesar salads to go with it. Yeah, great tucker after a long day in the road-rider saddle. I’d already finished my beer before tucking into the bonza tucker and opted to wash it down with another coldie, this time an orange fizzy drink. I never overdo the grog when driving, never. Outside, the Winnoes did a turn around the area before heading back towards my spot, which was clearly the best pozzy in the park. The leading Winno stopped by my driver’s door and a tall, heavy set bloke with a face like a robber’s dog stepped out and walked up to me. He saw me through the window sitting way up above him and nodded to me, then he knocked on the door. Behind him, a number of young people got out of the higgledy piggledy parked Winnebagoes to stretch their legs, others started dragging out beer coolers, cardboard vintages, noisy bloody boom boxes and worst of all, disco lights. This herd of drongoes were too bloody neighbourly by half, when they had the whole park to chose from.

One bloke, who looked like he knew what he was doing, purposefully carried several bags of coals over to the barbies, lifted the grill I had used and started piling on more coals, to save lighting them I guessed. No worries for me, I’d done with cooking my tucker for one for the night.

It looked like they were getting ready to party. At least a third of the newcomers out of the Winnoes were sheilas and all bar one were topless with norks hanging out like Bert Bryant’s tongue after a Gold Cup photo finish; even the bottom halves of their cossies were no more than the tiniest of g-strings. They were leaving little to the imagination of a bloke, even one as thoroughly disinterested in women as me. I was once married and cuntstruck by her right up until I found out she’d given up to others at least a lash at her gash behind my back.

The only sheila I could see with her jugs covered up by a bathrobe, was being held by two guys who dragged her kicking and screaming, with thongs on her feet providing little ground resistance. She was taken from the fourth to the front Winno, the one nearest me and level with the front of my truck. As she was pulled along by her outstretched arms, her robe fell open revealing a slim body wearing what must’ve been the smallest two-piece cossy in the world. That skimpy top barely contained her wobblies, I half-noted with long-unwakened interest, before she was unceremoniously bundled out of my view into the nearest Winnebago. I switched my attention back to the bloke knocking at my door.

“G’day, owyagoin’?” I asked my visitor, having reluctantly opened up the door a crack, conceding some of my cool air to the dry hothouse outside, and leaned out, saying good neighbourly “I’m Mark”.

I extended my hand downwards. He took my hand and shook it firmly, trying to impress what I assumed was his usual dominance, but from an inferior position. I smiled my calm indifference to his pointless exercise.

The bloke was certainly built like a brick dunny, his neck as thick as a buffalo’s, and under his close shaved and shiny bonce he wore black shades, a black tee, black board shorts and camoed desert boots, and was already visibly sweating by the time he reached my door. He didn’t even have to open his gob to confirm he was a bleeding Septic.

“Hiya, man, I’m Max, good ta meet yoos. Neat rig.”

“Yeah, it’s bonza, gets me from A to B and back again, no sweat. Nice mob o’ lookalike Winnoes you brought to the party, d’you ever get out of one in the night to take a leak and get back in the wrong one?” Just making conversation. This was a biggie for me, trying to adjust to society again. It had been a long five years completely out of circulation where social gatherings are concerned, other than instructions to work staff and the essential evil of negotiating through minimal chitchat with the customers I needed to do business with.

“Yeah, man, great. Look, is there just yoos here? ‘Cause there’s like more than thirty of us guys in the RVs an’ my boss’d want us parked in the shade of the trees, and closer to the BBQs, so’s we can party on undisturbed, OK man?”

“Well, it’s almost sundown, mate, and round here it’s like bright and sunny now but by the time the barbie’s glowing white it’ll be dark as an abbo’s armpit, so shade’s as much use as a nun’s norks in a gay bar. As for the noise of your party, well I’m as worn out as a prozzy’s fanny on payday, so you won’t disturb me once I’ve counted the first three proverbial sheep on the station.”

“Yeah, well, maybe, right? But my boss says we’ve worked hard all this week an’ he wants a Christmas Eve party tonight and, when we party we do like to party seriously all night, right? It’s gonna be noisy and with the disco lights flashin’ an’ boxes booming dance music, yoos ain’t sleepin’ one wink, OK, Bro? An’ we’d prefer to be well away from the road back here, in a bit of privacy. So, how’s about yoos doin’ us all a favour and shiftin’ over to the other side of the park? It’ll be quieter when yoos beds down for the night, an’ hey, ya even welcome to join the party for a bit if’n yoos wants to. We got plenty o’ booze, a real BBQ chef doin’ copacetic hot food an’ we got some cute dancin’ gals, too. Man, you’d even get laid, like real easy pussy, that’s what we got, an’ we don’t mind sharin’ if yoos don’t mind sharin’, capice?”

“Kind offer, mate, too true. Tell your boss, but I’ve already had me grog quota for this arvo and answering my door to you means my tucker’s on the shotgun seat attracting flies and growin’ cold, so I’m staying put under the trees right where I am. I was here first and I picked this bonzer spot, it fits me 26 metre trailer perfecto. Now, you understand, I’m driving on the clock and have to stop driving for the next eight hours but I’ll be departing at cockerel’s fart in the morning with me deliveries and deadlines to meet. So, if you wanna sleep your grog off under the trees after your allnighter, you’re welcome to move into the shade as soon as I nick off on my way.”