I’m going to FLOP at this truck stop.

Location: ///undergrad.sibling.dissolving

Basically, I’m sleeping at a truck stop tonight. I’m still about an hour away from the place I need to be tomorrow morning, but it’s tea o’clock, it’s all rainy and gloomy and I’m feeling driver-drowsy.

First task: boil the kettle.

Eww, a truck stop? I find something kinda neat about staying at a truck stop overnight. And by neat, I mean in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic, Mad Max, midnight air-brakes, 2am burnouts, rattling compressor vibe kind of way.

There is a a constant trickle of “interesting” (in scare quotes) people walking past on their way to the adjacent seven-eleven or the toilets. And I can hear loud snatches of music as they open and close their vehicle doors. Rap. Pop. Country. Mostly I don’t recognise the artists. Cuz I’m getting old and losing touch. Then I listen to an “enthusiastic” (in scarier quotes) argument on someone’s speakerphone.

The beach bus is here too.
My neighbour and Slim dusty fan.

For dinner tonight I’m making honey-mustard potato salad and cheese sandwiches. I grabbed the components at the supermarket before I left. Now I see there are bacon pieces in the potato salad.

So here I am. Sitting at a nowheresville truck stop, humming along to a trucker’s stereo playing Slim Dusty (or is it Shady? I can’t tell), whilst picking a blunderbuss of bacon bits out of my supermarket potato salad.

Such is my life.

Ian Miller

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