Fuel Truck's Late

TRANSCRIPT: DIGITAL VOICE RECORDER.

Exhibit Number: 251181131-25812382315

Recovered from abandoned vehicle, west of Silverton, NSW.

Battery status inconsistent.

ENTRY ONE

Right. Testing. Red light’s on. I think that means it’s working? Testing, testing. Okay good.

This is Dennis Parkes. I’m recording this in case my phone dies. It’s on about thirty percent battery , but there’s not much call for it out here. No reception. Haven’t heard a peep from it in hours. I’m on the road, somewhere past Broken Hill I think. West. I’m driving from Sydney to Perth, going to see Michelle. About 4,000 kilometres. Most of it very red. I never knew it could be so, so vast. It’s really huge. In school the teachers always talked about it, but you never really get an idea for it until you see it for yourself.

So yeah. Long drive. Michelle is graduating from University next week and I’m hoping to surprise her. Long distance relationships suck. Left Parramatta before daybreak. Took Bells Line over the Blue Mountains. Out through Dubbo and Cobar. Wanted to get that straight section done before noon. Dad always used to complain about it. The road flat and straight, like really straight. Like it was drawn with a ruler. And some bright spark made it head almost due west. So when the sun dips it’s just like driving into sun.

Towns are nothing out here. Specks on the moon. Stop at a servo, fill up, get supplies and get out quickly. Feels like if you paused your feet would stick and you’d never get out. Not that the locals have done anything. They just move so slow compared to Sydney. Car’s been good. Really good. Gassed up in Cobar. Should easily see me to Broken Hill tonight. At least that’s a decent sized little town. But fuel’s fine. Half a tank. Have a case of water bottles from Woolies in the boot. But the radio’s dead. Just like the phone. Nothing on the radio but static. For a little while there I left it on. No idea why. Just to break up the road noise I guess. Sounded a bit like breathing at one point, so I switched that radio off quick. Haven’t been game enough to turn it back on.

Anyway, just documenting. If you’re listening to this later Dennis, just relax. Remember to breath. You always catastrophise. Nothing’s going to go wrong. All will be fine. Stopping the recording now.

ENTRY TWO

Okay. Time for a new entry. Things have changed somewhat.

I’m out of fuel.

Like, really out. Bone dry out of fuel. I didn’t miscalculate. Checked it plenty. Had a range of a least an extra 300km past Broken Hill. But something strange happened. Not far past Wilcannia. There were road works. Like, in the middle of the road. Cones, tractors, bulldozers. And those infernal automated traffic lights. And not a soul in sight. But everything was massively bleached by the sun. They didn’t seem to be yellow. Not even the lights. A really strange pale white. Like all the colour had been washed out of them.

Anyway, I get the red-ish light. So I stopped. Fiddled with the radio. Still nothing. Nobody around for miles around, but you just know that if I ignore that light and just drive through – guaranteed there’d be a copper waiting behind some bit of scrub. Or he’d dug a hole to hide himself and his car from the sun. Either way, I just sat there waiting.

Watching the needle on the fuel gauge drop. Like it wanted to bodyslam the E. Like it was embarrassed to be full. So I sit there, watching the needle. And I figure if it keeps dropping like that I’m never going to make it to Broken Hill. Not by a long shot. And it’s not like there’s anyone out here anyway. So I skirt round the traffic lights and run the red-ish bulb. Nobody was here. Nobody notices.

I must’ve been still thinking about Michelle. What I’d say to her, after finally getting to see her face after so long. Not paying attention to what I was doing.. Kinda hard to pay attention to everything. I mean, aside from the reunion - this is the part of the world where they shot Mad Max II. And it looks just as desolate as it did in the film.

I get to a dry creek bed. I’m about 5 metres back from the bank, where the road cuts through, when the car coughs. Splutters. The needle was on empty. No light. No warning. Just empty. So I bunnyhop the car under some nearby trees, just off the road. Switch off the motor. The silence is so overwhelming. The sky so vast, you get a real feeling that you’re totally insignificant. You can hear your heartbeat. And if you listen, you can hear your body making all sorts of gurgling noises. Creepy.

But the sun is going down. I have the gear to sleep in the car, but suddenly that feels really unwise. Besides, the gyrocaptain might come back at any moment. I can see lights off in the distance. A town. It’s utterly absurd. There shouldn’t be anything out here. But there is. And since I don’t fancy being eaten alive by something, I start walking while I still have daylight.

Sure enough, in true Australian tradition, the first thing I see is the pub. Definitely a town ahead. I know it sounds utterly ridiculous. There really shouldn’t be anything here. Yet, I can clearly see lights. There’s the town. A tiny town, just a handful of shacks. Nailed together by hopes and dreams. I get to walking. Soon I can clearly see the town. Nothing’s moving. Like it’s a movie set before the director shouts “action”. A servo. A sign. A main street. All of it looking like it’s waiting for a photo.

I’m walking in. Recorder stays on.

ENTRY THREE

This town is called, ummm, I don’t actually know. There’s a sign there. But the paint has peeled away so much it’s utterly illegible. The name has literally fallen off. The servo is intact. Pumps are there. The glass in the windows isn’t broken. I just went inside and everything has a thick layer of dust on it. Not that surprising, I am in a desert after all. Propped up on the counter was an old fashioned chalkboard. It took me a while to read it, but someone wrote in this very fancy old style writing – fuck truck’s late.

That’s all. No time, no date, no apology. Just late.

There are people here. Standing too still. Like, a photograph. Feels like they’re just waiting for me to stop talking to myself before they move again. One of them smiled at me. I could hear the effort it took. All he said was “fuel truck’s late”. So I asked when it was last here. He laughed. Not at me. Not with me. Around me.

This place is really weird. Stopping this for now.

ENTRY FOUR

The town was too weird. So I slept in the car. I think I did. Strangest thing, the sun hasn’t moved much. It’s doing that thing where it threatens to set and then thinks better of it. Paints the sky in this incredible streaks of golds, reds and purples. Everyone says the same thing. Same words. Same cadences even. Fuel truck’s late. Should be here tomorrow.

I tried to walk out of town. Back past my car. Heading out the other side. All four directions. But the road bends. Not curves. Bends. But no matter how far I go I end up walking back into town. I never remember turning around though. I just walk, follow the white line. And then I look up again and the town is in front of me, not behind me.

No flies. No birds. No wind. My voice feels like it’s cracking. Like the town wants me to talk softer. And I’ve got these strange marks on my ribs. Not bruises. Impressions. Like someone pressed fingers into me and the skin didn’t bounce back. My arms are covered in these faint sucker marks, but I don’t remember fighting an octopus. Ever. But I didn’t tell anyone. Who could I tell?

ENTRY FIVE

I found the school. Just a single classroom school, small playground. With a metal merry-go-round. It has a chalkboard, covered in dust and scribble. On all the walls are drawings. Children’s drawings. A red thing, person, frog maybe? Round. No neck, giant mouth, no teeth. Just a black maw. Suckers on it’s fingers. There’s two legible words on the chalkboard. “Yarama Yhawho”. I know these words. I don’t know how I know them. Half remembered from some class way back when. The lesson on the teachers desk says it’s red, lives in fig trees. An ancient being from the Dreamtime. Swallows you whole. But you come back. Different. Over and over again. More different.

I laughed when I read that. I needed to hear something break the silence. But that only made it worse.

ENTRY SIX

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Longer than I thought. The recorder says the last entry was three days ago. But I’m sure I was in that classroom this morning. I’m not hungry or tired. Can’t remember the last time I ate. Slept in the car again. I dreamed I was inside something warm and red. It wasn’t violent. It was patient. Comforting. When I woke up I knew where the pub kept the spare glasses. I’ve never been behind the bar here. I don’t think at least.

ENTRY SEVEN

This is important. Listen carefully. I’m not going mad. The town isn’t waiting for fuel. Or rain. The town is waiting for me. Well, not me exactly. It’s waiting for anyone. It’s not haunted. It’s inhabited. By a creature. A fairy. An imp. Something out of the Dreamtime. The people here are not individuals. They’re pauses. Punctuation. I get flickers of their minds, their thoughts. Appearing like flashes in my mind. I saw beneath the skin of one of them today. Not literally, he wasn’t being peeled. But this time when he looked at me I could see he was deciding something. Thinking about how much to show, if that makes sense. He said tomorrow again. I said it with him. We laughed together.

ENTRY EIGHT

I’ve been searching, but the fig tree isn’t here. But I can feel it. Under the ground. Under the road. Under the ancient roads. Roots like thoughts that keep looping back on themselves. A web. That’s the really clever part. The Yarama Yahoo figured out something important. Fig trees are way too obvious. This part of the world, they’re rare. Towns last longer. They’re inviting.

The Yarama Yahoo swallowed this place decades ago. If not longer. It took it’s time. Digested it slowly, learned out to speak English. Learned how to say late instead of never. I think it’s learning my voice now. I keep hearing my voice, whispering to me on the breeze. Talking to me. Saying things I’d never even thought of before.

ENTRY NINE

I tried to leave. Didn’t announce to any of the people here. Didn’t pack. I just walked past my car near the creek bed and kept going. Then at some point I looked up from my feet and the town was in front of me again. I turned around. Walked away from the town again. Again I just ended up walking towards it. Not leaving it. I was exhausted when I got back. That’s different. New. Haven’t felt tired in a long time. It felt like a reward for trying. There was soft applause when I got back. But I don’t know who or where from. Then I found myself saying thank you. That scared me.

ENTRY TEN

My name sounds weird when I say it now. Dennis. Den-nis. Doesn’t fit in my mouth anymore. I don’t really need it anymore. There was an entry on the recorder I don’t remember making. My voice. But different. Like I had no teeth. No diction. The recording described the exact position of a man arriving in town. He did. About an hour later. I greeted him correctly. Told him the fuel truck was late. Tomorrow. He looked relieved, like a great weight was lifted off his shoulders. I felt proud at that. That felt strange. Weird.

ENTRY ELEVEN

The chalkboard has my handwriting on it. Exactly my handwriting. But it hasn’t changed. I don’t remember writing it. But, I do remember writing it. Years ago. Yesterday. Both are true. But it doesn’t matter. Fuel truck’s late. The words are not information. They start the digestion. They slow people down. Keep them calm. Keep them here. I showed the newcomer a few spots where he could sleep. I used the correct words. The correct tone. Calm. Kind. I find I’m very good at this.

ENTRY TWELVE

This is not cruelty. Cruelty is quick. Selfish. This is slow. This is accommodating. Accepting. The Yarama Yahoo doesn’t kill. It changes you. Repurposes. Remakes you. It strips away the bits that don’t matter and leaves you whole. Better than before. It is ancient. Small. Hard to spot. Even though its red. I can feel it now when I stop talking. A fullness behind the eyes. Thickness in my fingers. Like it’s inside me, all over. It’s in my skull, seeping into my brain, my mind. A crowd leaning in to hear the next sentence. We need to keep speaking.

ENTRY THIRTEEN

I opened myself up in a dream. There were no organs. No innards. Just rooms. I was sitting in an empty waiting room that seemed as big as the Nullarbor sky. Chairs arranged neatly in a grid. A counter in front of me. Behind the counter, something old and red smiled with my mouth. A few feet tall, he looked like a cross between an ape and a frog. Suckers on his hands. Then it looked at me. Directly. Looking through me. It asked me for help. I said I already was. That I look forward to the next chance I have. To do it again. I looked down at myself. I looked just like him. Small. Old. Red. Suckers on my fingers.

ENTRY FOURTEEN

Another car today. A businessman. Suit and tie. Clutching a briefcase. Gold watch. Gold tooth. Same panic. I said the words. I always say the words. Fuel truck’s late. The words calm people. They taste better when people believe them. The relief is clear. The words calm him. They give him hope. The same hope that perhaps he could escape. He can’t. The recorder light flickers when I speak now. Like it’s blinking.

FINAL ENTRY

If you are listening to this then you found my car. Parked under the trees near the dried up creek bed. That means you’re already here. But please understand, this is not a threat. It’s a courtesy. We will look after you. We’ll give you a role. A purpose. We’ll teach you how to wait without hurting. Without needing anything. The fuel truck will arrive when there’s nothing left that needs to leave. And by then it won’t be needed at all. Until then, stay. We are very patient. Become one of us.

END TRANSCRIPT