He wandered in from the hot winds of the Adelaide summer of 1979. Somewhere in Sydney someone slammed a door. He wanted to be there.
‘Fill it up. I'm going to Balranald, Hay, Sydney. I'm on my
way.’
‘This heap?’
‘Fill it up.’
2
In the cities people are born, they go to school, fail or
succeed, work, stay single or get married, get divorced, have relatives, eat
breakfast, go to parties. It's possible to live a whole life without once going
out of the city. Every once in a while, however, it's necessary to move from
city to city, to travel, to hit the open road.
‘Fill it up.’
‘This heap?’
‘I'm on my way.’
3
Flat, flat, flat. But then the river. Winding like a
streamer floating in the air, but hemmed in by trees. More trees than you'd see
for acres, thousands of acres. This country was the beginning of the centre.
The long slow haul towards inland Australia. It always made him want to be in
cities, where things went up instead of outwards. Being on the long drawn-out
plains made a flat earth look like a real possibility. If you kept going, foot
flat on the accelerator you'd drive over the edge. The cities were a better
bet.
 |
| Crossing the Hay Plains |
4
Half-way between Sydney and Adelaide, between the Eastern
and the Southern coastlines, lies Hay. Plenty of travellers have driven past
Hay, most without even noticing it. On the road what you notice are the petrol
stations, with their cigarettes and coffee and their bacon and eggs in the
morning. The towns are the back-ends of the petrol stations.
5
They had pushed on for the last four hours, keeping the big
yellow Ford flat out. After a while they didn't even notice the constant and
steady scream of air past the half-open car window or the un-ending flicker of
authentic bush through the windscreen.
6
Finally, their wandering along the vast expanse of Highway
20 brought them to Hay. Hay is the centre of Australia for motorists, for travellers. Hay is the
town where everyone, except those who live there, break down. Hay sits on the
Murrumbidgee River, from Highway 20 by a sweeping bridge that leans across the
water.
7
The roo was just an instantaneous flash, like a candid
camera in action, tinkling broken glass as the headlights exploded, the screech
of metal as the radiator gave up the ghost. Almost before it happened the
intersection of roo and car was just another road accident to be reported and
filed in a one-man police station somewhere.
8
Then, it happened. The temperature gauge shot upwards, up,
up like a stockmarket chart on the peak of a boom. He cursed.
‘Shit, something's wrong.’
He braked suddenly, hard. In a couple of seconds he'd
negotiated the car into the rough on the side of the road, sliding to a stop in
a tailspin of gravel and dust. He pushed open the door and was around at the
bonnet in a second.
‘Can you pull the bonnet catch? I forgot.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Sometimes he gave her the shits. The bonnet unlocked with a
blunt click. He had pulled it up without acknowledging her action. From the
front seat she could see the steam going up and out like a message to
bystanders who weren't there, weren't anywhere.
He shook his head, then ran his fingers through his hair. He
was suddenly quiet, sapped of anger at the rush of events, breaking a steady,
uneventful trip. He walked slowly round to her passenger window.
‘Too hot. We'll have to wait.’ They were only an hour out of Hay. He looked
flatter than she could remember. She had
a good memory. He was suddenly apologetic.
‘Sorry. This is the last thing I expected. What a place to
break down. You wouldn't believe it!’
The car shuddered lightly as he kicked the side panel.
‘Don't be an idiot!
We've had a good run. It could happen anytime.’ He had relapsed into silence. Abruptly he
smiled. He sometimes had a nice smile she thought.
‘Ah well’, he drew out the syllables, ‘It's not the end of
the world.’ He laughed. Around them,
with the steady, endless noise of the moving car cut off to silence, everything
was still. Night was just beginning to fall. It was the time of day when the
small animals and birds of the bush start to tentatively come out to look for
food. The most peaceful time in the world.
9
‘I suppose we'd better start hoping another car comes
along.’
‘We can always sleep in the car. Bit cramped but it'll do.’
‘If we have to. We'd have to half unload, though.’
‘It's not that bad. Come on. At least we're still in one
piece.’
‘Yeah.’
He had half turned away from the car, watching the sun
dropping slowly. It seemed to drain away his frustration. One minute he'd been
in control of a car going everywhere he wanted it to. Next minute, he was
stuck, stopped dead, just another dot in the landscape.
He walked out onto the road a bit.
‘I'll grab the first car that comes along. If they can stop
in Hay, they can get someone to come back and give us a tow. I reckon we can
count on sightseeing in Hay for a while.’
10
He kicked the car. Not hard. He loved it too much for that.
It was a heap, a broken-down heap, but it was his escape from life in general.
No, he kicked it with affection, without enthusiasm. The car shared his sense
of disappointment. He was on his way to Sydney to the bright lights, an
eighteen year old's sense of freedom, and he'd broken down. No money, that had
all gone into the car. He looked into the distance and he smelt the humidity of
the big smoke, 600 miles to the west.
11
‘You'll be here for weeks. No parts. Blown a head gasket.
Poor bastard. Put'er on the forklift, on the train. Or wait for parts from
Melbourne. Takes ages. Where y'ere staying?
Could be worse.’
The country and western station drawled, drawn-out as the
tow truck crawled along. Religious news, evangelical tapes, what are you doing
with your life? Heading for Hay, the
centre of Australia. The driver, used to disaster, looked on.
In the forever lit, glaring service station, the sex
magazines leapt out from the racks, flooding the world with glossy flesh.
‘Met someone, in a bar in Sydney, looking for a good-time.’
Bottomless bars, topless models.
‘Met someone.’
‘Fill it up. I'm on my way.’
‘This heap?’
Sydney.
13
‘Darwin's been blown out. No way in. Everything's flattened.
Police with rifles.’
‘What you gonna do?’
‘Go to Sydney. Hay, Wagga, Sydney.’
She had packed her bags. Took her time. Christmas '75.
Heading for Darwin. One last hippie, not quite able to afford Bali. Listening
to the radio. Big storm in the North. Worse than the Japanese bombing, way back
in '43.
‘Fill it up. I'm on my way.’
14
People in Sydney were out at night. Were about to start
thinking about sniffing cocaine. Had run out of petrol.
‘Have you been here before, can I get a taxi near here?’
‘I'll give you a lift.’
‘I need to get home. I'll take a taxi.’
‘Fill it up. I'm on my way.’
‘This heap?.’
‘Fill it up.’
The club was slowly sinking. Everyone was awake, more or
less.
‘I'll give you a lift.’
‘I was on my way to Hay.’
‘Hay?’
15
He kissed her nipples, he carefully bit her breasts. He had
to go home. Through Hay back to Adelaide. He'd blown a head gasket. He hadn't
joined the RAA.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Kempsey, my family live there.’
‘I used to live in Melbourne. Went out lots. Sometimes got
pissed. Been there?’
‘No.’
‘More champagne? You
okay. Can I get a taxi from here?
Where's Kempsey?’
‘Miles away.’
‘Hey, do you love me?
I've got to go home. Wife, three kids. Hay, Adelaide. What's the
time? I've blown a head gasket. I've got
to get to Adelaide, via Hay. I don't want to be stranded in Hay.’
16
‘What's your name?’
She stirred. Turned over on her back. Her nipples were small
and tight against the cold early morning air. Her hand went down between her
thighs. ‘Just checking.’
‘What?’
‘Whether we'd fucked.’
‘How'd you know?’
‘Wet.’
He decided he loved her. But it was too late. He was already
driving away. He was on the way home. He'd been there, he'd been confused and
it was too late.
17
The centre of the hurricane?
That's it, the eye at the centre of the hurricane. He knew he'd heard it
before.
‘Hay?’
‘The hurricane.’ She
laughed.
‘Hey, you're not going to get pregnant? What do you use?’
‘Fine time to ask.’
‘Just wondered.’
‘So you're from Adelaide. Don't they fuck there?’
‘Not so often.’
‘Why'd you come to Sydney?’
‘Reasons.’
Somewhere in Sydney, someone slammed a door. He wanted to be
there.
‘I broke down in Hay.’
‘That so bad?’
‘It's the centre of Australia, I reckon.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I saved up for a car. I wanted to travel. You know, see the
world. I headed off.’
‘Fill it up. I'm going to Sydney.’
‘This heap?’
‘Fill it up. I'm on my way.’
18
‘Listen, son, why the hell do you want to go to Sydney
anyway. It's too big and fast - it'll cost you heaps.’
‘I'm sick of this dump. I want some excitement.’
‘If you're going to drive that thing all the way to Sydney,
excitement is the last thing you'll get. It'll take forever.’
‘I'm not in any hurry.’
‘We'll see.’
19
The birds never stopped. All night long their racket filled
the blue-grey leaves on the branches curving out over the Murrumbidgee. Then,
in the morning, as the first sliver of sun clambered over the endless horizon,
they rose up, further and further, spiralling like light, burnt ash over a
blazing back-yard inferno, up to the sky.
They climbed up high enough to see the whole inland plain,
laid out like a lino floor, from Adelaide on the Gulf to Sydney with its
Harbour, and the endless arc of bitumen between.
20
The summer winds dropped down from the centre, like a
reminder of a plan. He slowly shut the window. He thought of cities, he
considered gaskets, and petrol stations, and he opened the door.
© Stephen Cassidy, 1993
Commended, HQ magazine Story Contest 1995
Highly commended, Bauhinia Literary Awards 2004
Published in Idiom 23 magazine October 2004
For more information about the author see Writing biography.
See also
State of origin
Multimedia piece developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, State of origin looked at where we come from, where we go next and where we truly belong. In this work the writer and visual artist combined word, image and computer technology to make visual music. Words and images moved across the computer screen, with no fixed address, State of origin.
The lost art of conversation
Installation, developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, on words, meaning, reflection and infinite (or at least, partial) regression. Three tall thin vertical mirrors stand against the wall, covered in bursts of words. Three matching paper shadows flow out from the wall along the floor. Words on the mirrors flutter and blur into shadows, The lost art of conversation.
balloon
A fictional narrative work in the form of a website, the website as writing. About the adventures of a refugee from the big city who sets up the High Country Thought Balloon Company. A series of brief vignettes about the characters, situations and stories which intersect the path of the balloons as they soar across the skies of the Southern Tablelands and Snowy region. It is about changing perspective, balloon.
Malacoota Inlet
‘Shutdown in a flat, wet land, the line beween sea and sky where grey meets grey, where stricken yachts come in’, Malacoota Inlet.
Sitting on twigs
‘Sitting on twigs in the flat lands, in a piece of country loaded with meaning, like a tightly coiled spring’, Sitting on twigs.
Signature of water
A series of artworks as part of the Waterworks exhibition at Goulburn Regional Art Gallery responding to the shared task of facing up to life on our dry continent. It ranged from short, minimalist animations, using cartoons, to hyperfiction drawing on the styles of crime novels. It was a mix of poetry, storytelling, images and sounds which were heavily influenced by the styles of popular culture and the urban and rural landscapes around us, Signature of water.
© Stephen Cassidy, 1993
Commended, HQ magazine Story Contest 1995
Highly commended, Bauhinia Literary Awards 2004
Published in Idiom 23 magazine October 2004
For more information about the author see Writing biography.
See also
I smoke baby cigars
‘Smoking baby cigars in the dark of the backyard. Like some Cuban presidente haranguing the crowd with reminders, I proffer a list of romantic anniversaries, our May 4th movement, our July 12th uprising – our moment when everything became new’, I smoke baby cigars.
Cut back to black
‘Cut back to black, thin chill drizzle mid-winter – infinite regression on petrol’. Also called ‘Revhead heaven’, Cut back to black.
Coming back to these stones
‘Coming back to these stones – in the sandy dry reaches of the Coorong in South Australia’s South East birds flicker across the flat water like beads of run-away mercury’, Coming back to these stones.
Landscapes in a rear vision mirror
‘Heading at a moment's notice into Broken Hill, breaking several traffic laws on the Barrier Highway, in the rear vision mirror the land kept switching colours’, Landscapes in a rear vision mirror.
Stopping by Lake George
‘Lake George is a vast stretching freshwater lake, with no outlet. It is only diminished by evaporation. Many stories are told about Lake George, a still point of the turning earth, with all the quiet of the eye at the centre of a hurricane’, Stopping by Lake George.See other work from the Conversations group exhibition, Goulburn Regional Art Gallery, 2004 – a collaborative exhibition of writers and visual artists.‘Smoking baby cigars in the dark of the backyard. Like some Cuban presidente haranguing the crowd with reminders, I proffer a list of romantic anniversaries, our May 4th movement, our July 12th uprising – our moment when everything became new’, I smoke baby cigars.
Cut back to black
‘Cut back to black, thin chill drizzle mid-winter – infinite regression on petrol’. Also called ‘Revhead heaven’, Cut back to black.
Coming back to these stones
‘Coming back to these stones – in the sandy dry reaches of the Coorong in South Australia’s South East birds flicker across the flat water like beads of run-away mercury’, Coming back to these stones.
Landscapes in a rear vision mirror
‘Heading at a moment's notice into Broken Hill, breaking several traffic laws on the Barrier Highway, in the rear vision mirror the land kept switching colours’, Landscapes in a rear vision mirror.
Stopping by Lake George
State of origin
Multimedia piece developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, State of origin looked at where we come from, where we go next and where we truly belong. In this work the writer and visual artist combined word, image and computer technology to make visual music. Words and images moved across the computer screen, with no fixed address, State of origin.
The lost art of conversation
Installation, developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, on words, meaning, reflection and infinite (or at least, partial) regression. Three tall thin vertical mirrors stand against the wall, covered in bursts of words. Three matching paper shadows flow out from the wall along the floor. Words on the mirrors flutter and blur into shadows, The lost art of conversation.
balloon
A fictional narrative work in the form of a website, the website as writing. About the adventures of a refugee from the big city who sets up the High Country Thought Balloon Company. A series of brief vignettes about the characters, situations and stories which intersect the path of the balloons as they soar across the skies of the Southern Tablelands and Snowy region. It is about changing perspective, balloon.
Malacoota Inlet
‘Shutdown in a flat, wet land, the line beween sea and sky where grey meets grey, where stricken yachts come in’, Malacoota Inlet.
Sitting on twigs
‘Sitting on twigs in the flat lands, in a piece of country loaded with meaning, like a tightly coiled spring’, Sitting on twigs.
Signature of water
A series of artworks as part of the Waterworks exhibition at Goulburn Regional Art Gallery responding to the shared task of facing up to life on our dry continent. It ranged from short, minimalist animations, using cartoons, to hyperfiction drawing on the styles of crime novels. It was a mix of poetry, storytelling, images and sounds which were heavily influenced by the styles of popular culture and the urban and rural landscapes around us, Signature of water.
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