On the journey back from Camperdown I often stop in at the Batesford roadhouse. Gerty the Getz crunches onto an expansive gravel apron where semi trailers with there adopted children lie snoozing while their tattooed drivers eat hungrily in the cafe. I too am bound there for a steak sandwich with the lot -no cheese- of course. A television hangs in the air like a U.F.O and pumps out inannities from the days events or whatever TV game show happens to be on while my steak cooks through. Scrapings of chairs and knifes and forks dent the china of other diners. The walls are a mosaic of truck pictures. Big huffng men standing proudly next to their rigs in all manner of locations from the Harbour Bridge to Ayers rock. There’s a picture from every point around the country it seems. Almost like these are badges of honour in the trucking world- maybe they are.

The steak and chips land in front of me, the oily residue of the fryer clearly identifiable, as I bite into the combo juices dribble down my hands. Egg and bacon and tomato and sauce and lettuce and pickle explode together in a taste bomb I just want to gulp down too rapidly so I can go back for another bite, the same way a kid wants to run back to the top of the giant slide for another elated moment of freedom. The bread has a crunchy untoasted appearance – I suspect it’s been thrown on the grill at the last moment and browned, sort of a French toast idea . I zoom out from the food while chewing to look the other way at a display of car parts for various emergencies from fan belts to wiper blades to spark plugs. Finishing I get up to pay , grabbing a cold coke from the fridge. It’s arctic chill almost burns before I get to the checkout. My wallet has been slugging around the back pocket I open pillow of bills, crisp fifties and floating twenties float in a pocket of darkness……