The Roadhouse

So not wine related – I wrote this for that short story comp The West does each year. Some decent prize money on offer, always worth a go. Anyways, didn’t crack the top fifty so I’m free to share it. False modesty not required – there is nothing overly spectacular here, but still a couple of decent lines I think, so hopefully someone enjoys.

THE ROADHOUSE

After almost a hundred kilometres of open road, flanked on either side by scrub or sparse farmland, Lincoln felt relief to be finally approaching a town. He slowed his vehicle down with the gradual tapping of his brake pedal, and now felt safe enough to let his eyes and mind wander from the road and into the nuances of this particular place.

The first house on the left was predominantly just a yard, with old cars, some completely rusted, and sprawled in an unorganised way. The house an afterthought: lived in perhaps, but not maintained. On his right, he noticed what once must have been a beautiful old church, but in this light it only looked depressing. Its timeless qualities vanquished through vandalism and neglect. 

Lincoln would usually feel a strange sensation as he drove through the small towns he passed on his journeys. He’d find himself being drawn into the soul of a town as if he’d always lived there, and knew the place intricately. A single glance could solidify an image, akin to a still photograph, which would then come to life in his mind. They weren’t exact story lines, but more of a hazy sense of well-being that he found impossible to describe or fully understand. He did not need to step barefoot on the footpath to feel its warmth, nor taste the cold air to feel it rush through his lungs. He didn’t need to see people in the street to hear them talk. It was only through driving through quaint country towns did all five of his senses felt so in-tune, so full of life, sparked by an imagination that was out of his own control.

Yet the whole experience was usually fleeting. As soon as he tried to isolate a specific person, or the words they were saying the whole thing would vanish, only to reappear when his mind drifted back to concentrating on the road. Usually, he felt it merely in a pleasant and almost subconscious way, although every now and then it would become so overwhelming he would need to pull over.  

This drive had been particularly long, and he had found his thoughts drifting in a purely negative direction. On why he was the way he was, of every mistake he’d ever made. Having to learn every lesson the hard way. Only the sparsely appearing towns gave him something in which he could let his thoughts escape into. But after such a long anticipation, he was disappointed. No images were solidifying behind his eyes. There were no stills of well-presented families in their Sundays best. No white noise snippets of conversations over a barbeque at the tennis club, or mindless small talk in front of the general store between two acquaintances to give him respite from his inwardly aimed thoughts.

By the time he’d reached the middle of the town, the main road slicing it in half, Lincoln found himself becoming hyper aware. Unrelaxed. Analytical. The houses that lined the highway stood out as individuals: they were neighbours, but not friends. Signs of life, but devoid of positive energy. In one front yard long, unkempt grass, that had once reached for the sun with enthusiasm was now standing up too tall, begging for attention. Seasonally, it was the tail end of a long winter, yet the top half of the grass was brown. A metronome, it waved back and forth with the gusts of the gentle breeze. After another dozen houses, the town was finished, until on the very far edge of town a roadhouse emerged. A last gasp oasis, promising a stale and civilised protection from the elements. Showing off its bright lights, a castle neatly surrounded by a concrete moat. Lincoln glanced down his fuel gauge and instinctively pulled in to fill.

In contrast to the town itself, the roadhouse a beacon of activity. A scene of organised chaos. Trucks, cars and caravans justled for spots to fill. Approaching the automatic doors unleashed a new and sickly sensation, The thick petroleum oil smells of outside melded with the intoxicating, yet enticing smells of an overworked deep fryer, invading separate nostrils. 

Inside were two neat aisles of packaged food: chips and chocolate and everything in between. On the left was a drinks fridge, stacked with iced coffee, energy drinks and soft drinks. All of which were keenly aimed to give the weary traveller the exact combination of sugar and caffeine to get them another however-many-more miles down the road. The way it was all laid out was something to behold. A place for everything and everything in its place. Such intent and precision, as if some sort of perfection had been achieved here. 

“Just the fuel love?” said an older woman interrupting his daze. Her name tag read ‘Donna’, the bags under her eyes practically rolling hills in the context of the flat landscape that surrounded the town. 

“Yeah, yep. The petrol in number 3. Oh. And this”. He pointed to the iced coffee he’d plucked from the fridge. 

“And. Actually, can I get a toasted ham and cheese sandwich as well.”

“Do you want me to make that fresh for you love.”?

“Ah…sure.”

“With chips.?”

“Ah. Sure.” “Why not” he added unnecessarily after an awkward pause.

“Take a seat, I’ll bring that over.” An open palm gestured towards the restaurant section.

Lincoln wandered briskly past a table of motor cycle gang members, carefully not to make eye contact. One of them was doing all the talking, whilst the rest only seemed to be half listening. An older couple sat on another table, steam heaving out of the top of their freshly arrived coffees and a newspaper spread out across the plastic table and cheap tablecloth. Locals, he wondered, but it was hard to tell. It was one of those places where perhaps no one was from here, and yet everyone belonged here. In particular this old couple looked too comfortable in their environment to be simply passing through. Instead, they gave the impression of meandering the day away, watching all the strange and interesting people come and go. Perhaps this was their daily activity? They looked about the same age as his aunt, who had moved to the South of France about five years ago, just before he had finished high school. When he visited her last year, he had found a curiosity in her lifestyle. She would spend her days walking down limestone steps to the terrace, frequenting the different cafes which were blessed with a view of the Mediterranean. A book in one hand, a cigarette in the other. A cup of coffee, sometimes two to prolong lazy hours of people watching. The saline breeze would come in the afternoons, cooling her face, and bringing a dramatic sense of flair to passers-by on foot, as the breeze moved their clothes so poetically that it almost seemed choreographed. What was the difference, he wondered, between what happened here, and his aunt? The ingredients were different but the recipe was the same. Simple consumable pleasures and people watching. Passing the day away as another coloured dot in a masterpiece painting that only the artist could see. 

Different, he thought.

But the same.

Lincoln found himself a seat with a view towards the till so he could anticipate his food arriving, and his sense of well-being returned. He didn’t need a newspaper or something in front of him to hold his attention. Instead, he enjoyed letting his thoughts and feelings escape himself as they flowed consciously into the lives of others. 

Then he saw her. 

Her backpack came off, moving smoothly into her hands to carry it, followed by her rain jacket and hood, enabling her short blonde hair to announce itself to the room. Lincoln sat up in his chair, as if his iced coffee had shot a lightning bolt up his spine. There was nothing to interrupt his line of sight and he remained transfixed. 

“So, there’s no bus that leaves from here? Nothing passing through. There must be something like that?”

“Sorry love. Not that I know of.”

“Well look, I’m rather stranded and desperately trying to get to the big smoke.”

The agitation in her voice increased as Donna’s face got blanker. Lincoln, eavesdropping also thought he’d heard an accent. Was she English, or just had less of an Australian ‘twang’ than he’d become accustomed to on the road?

“There must be some way of getting there, a bus? A train?”

“A catamaran?” she added sharply in disbelief, her voice cracking at the absurdity of it all.  

“I’m sorry dear, but unless you want to pay for fuel, or want something to eat and drink there is not much I can help you with.”

Lincoln was still transfixed as he watched the new arrival with the blonde hair pause for a few deep breaths and scan the interior of the roadhouse, looking for a sympathetic face. She had made her way almost fully across the room, when she found Lincoln staring back at her. She sent him a sarcastic, lingering smile, coupled with a shake of the head that said ‘can you believe this?’. Perhaps it was the stillness of the previous image, or this newcomer losing her cool that enabled him to find his. Lincoln found himself standing up and before he’d had time to think he had wandered over, instinctively opening up his hands in an attempt to seem non-threatening.

“I’m heading that way. I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I’m not a hitchhiker. But thanks anyway.” No accent.

“No problem, just an offer.” he said nonchalantly, flicking the briefest of smiles. 

He went back to his seat, still feeling his calm and wondered how quickly he could eat and leave. It felt like only a few seconds of staring down at the table that he looked up again at the till, only to have the lady standing right there in front of him. 

“Which car are you driving?”

It may have been the creases in her face as she seemed a bit older from this angle. Almost pretty, but there was personality there. He sensed a ball of energy, of entertainment waiting to be unlocked. Being dumbstruck by beauty can force a pause, but curiosity and anticipation can bring about more enquiries.

“I’m driving the red Commodore. But first, I’ve got a Michelin star toasted sandwich coming my way.”

She laughed and it felt genuine enough for a sense that the ice had been properly broken. Being able to make her laugh felt almost euphoric. He wanted more of that. She sat down and he put out his hand for her to shake.

“Lincoln.” he mumbled.

“I’m Julia. And I’m still not really a hitchhiker.”

“Well, I’m not really a taxi driver”. To this she didn’t laugh. Instead, she placed her elbows on the table, then hands on her face, sliding them up as if her head was an egg, sitting snugly in a little egg-cup. A plate of food appeared in front of him out of nowhere, and he despite not wanting to eat in front of Julia, he figured it would look very strange if he didn’t. 

At first, while he ate, he offered up some light small talk, mainly questions, but the answers that came were monosyllabic; she seemed intent on keeping her mystery. That didn’t suit him too well as he was hoping to listen while he focussed on his sandwich. The longer the silence went, the more pressure he felt to say something worthwhile. From afar he felt comfortable staring at her non-stop but now she was at his table he was almost afraid to make eye contact. Out of desperation, his eyes drifted over to another table. 

Gesturing with his eyes, the words “what do you think of that lot?” finally emerged.

“Terrifying mob. You wouldn’t want to know what they get up to most of the time.”

She was back!

Again, he glanced over. Collectively their skin, their full body tattoos were terrifying. They looked like the desk at the very back of the classroom. Who would want that on their face?

“Oh absolutely. But those jackets they wear.”

“I don’t think they’d suit you.” she said, teasing gently.

“I can’t argue there. But I do like ‘em. They’re pretty intricate things. All the patches, and logos. I wonder who does all that design. All the sewing and what-not. I mean, is one of them, like a part time drug dealer and part time wizard with a needle and thread? 

“I really don’t know. Can I have a chip.”?

“Sure.”

“So why don’t you just go and ask them”?

Lincoln got up with intent, keeping eye contact with her the whole time. Hoping to hear a ‘don’t be silly’, or see some kind of flicker in her eyes. But if it happened, he never noticed it. Confidence floated through the air, and it seemed again he had chosen to breath it in, and mix it in with the fresh dose of caffeine moving through his veins. Was it nervous energy coupled with that sensation of your mind no longer controlling your body? Or rather that feeling of calm familiarity, the fleeting bliss of self-destructive behaviour, something he’d come to cautiously treasure. 

Julia picked over the last chips on his plate. He had left the larger ones, the less crunchy ones. Scavenging a stranger’s leftovers off the plate of roadhouse food felt like a new low. But one to laugh about rather than cry. There was a loud bang on a table behind her. Turning around, she saw Lincoln making a speedy exit. One of the bikies was massaging his fist, which had obviously met with the table to intimidate her new acquaintance. But whilst Lincoln was running, none of them of them seemed intent on chasing, and on the whole they seemed somewhere between mildly annoyed and mildly amused by whatever he had just said. 

The thought that Lincoln might be about do a runner on her then entered her head. Outside, Julia caught up to him and grabbed his arm. He looked relieved to see her. 

“Are they following us”?

“Give us your keys.” 

“Are they following us”? he repeated.

“Of course not. Give us your keys, let’s make a move.”
“What? Why do you want to drive my car?”

“Look down at your hands mate.” The accent was back.

Lincoln looked down at his arm, at his hands shaking wildly.

Still shaking, he reaching into his pockets and handed over the keys.

“I think your phone might be ringing.” he joked, referring to the inadvertent jingling. 

He received only a glare back. Julia threw her back-pack and rain jacket on the back seat as if she had taken ownership of the car. She had stolen it right in front of him. His thoughts began to spiral again. 

It was going to be a long drive.