“Going Home”
Truck Driver > Cowboys > Western Movie
Deep drawling voices transmitted through Jason’s revelry. Spluttered words, that intruded into his dash lit refuge. He slouched astride his rig. A 550 horse power Western Star. Concealed, shielded in its moving cinema of solitude. His stiff fingers fondled the Two- Way Radio. His grease stained caress, silenced the incessant air-hauled chatter.
A Director, seated in his chair, he over-looked the theatrical scenes of the highway. His silhouetted features illuminated, in the sepia glow of choreographed gauges. They winked with a promiscuous glint. Flirtatious Saloon Girls, they flicked their skirts in a high kicking Can- Can. Their glittering hems cast around the Cab and Trailer Gunnels.
Black tar flicked before his eyes, in an endless replay of rehearsed lines. Each segment spliced precisely into the next. His revved engine, endowed with the speed of a gunslinger, poised before an ever changing audience. He merged into an animated feature of fuel injected scenes, engulfed by the moonless night. His headlights danced in time with the rhythm of an ageless song, played on the music channel.
Got to move the freight, work long into the night,
Days away from home, hours till dawns light,
Punching up the ks, have to make ends meet,
Keep food on the table, shoes on Katie’s feet,
Katie’s getting taller, every time he passes through,
He’s got no time to waste; he has to load by two

Katie’s getting married, full of grace and charm,
It seems like only yesterday he held her in his arms,
But somewhere during yesterday, she grew before his eyes,
The road stretches out, he races against time,
Got to be there, to give his little girl away,
If only, he’d been there, every other day.

Unedited, the re-enacted age old story, grated in Jason’s bitter mind. Had he left it too late? He’d been a besotted fan, entranced by the big screen. His life, scripted. Typecast. He was the image of a typical 50 year old Truckie. Captured, totally absorbed like the crumbling ruts in the road. He was five hours out of Perth. He’d drawn the long haul, 3943kms to Sydney.
His high top boot planted firmly. Spurred his diesel powered mount forward. It reared into the bit. Whined, a fuel seared protest. Diesel laced breath fumed from its panting exhausts. Gravel spat from beneath its rubber clad stride. It lunged, piston punched. In rapid fired motion. That shot him into the night. He was going home.

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